


Return to the Point of No Return

by cthene



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack and Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, That's Not How The Force Works, Time Travel, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthene/pseuds/cthene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He turns around, his tunic soaked with blood, and holds the gorgon's head up by its wispy hair.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Anakin, please-"</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Don't beg me, Master,” says the last of the Sith, tenderly reaching to cup Obi Wan's hot cheek with a gore-stained hand.  “Command me.”</i></p><p> </p><p>The ever-popular time travel fix-it fic... with a bit of a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

 

Darth Vader advances towards him slowly, red blade held aloft, divining, black mantis head tilting, cautious.

 

“You should not have come back,” the Sith rumbles.

 

And it's not- because it can't be- _regret_ which Obi Wan detects now in that synthetic voice. No, not now, at the end, after everything. Not in the middle of this scene, which he has worked so hard to engineer. Not seconds before his own scripted demise.

 

These thoughts are a distraction he can ill afford. In order to put Qui Gon's final lesson into practice, he must let go of everything which binds him to this world, and surrender himself to the Living Force entirely. His diversion only needs to last for a few seconds more- for the freighter to be boarded, for Padmé's children to escape, for the future to be won.

 

He breathes in, oxygenating his blood with a prayer.

 

He is ready. Ready for death, and for whatever comes next- apotheosis, damnation, oblivion. He is ready to accept the Will of the Force.

 

He is ready for anything, except what actually happens:

 

The next time their sabers clash, the world explodes. The buzzing, hissing point of contact between the two blades is the only thing which remains constant as the galaxy lurches to a halt and begins to reverse itself, respooling itself around that bobbin of light.

 

There is a blast of heat, of thick, sulfurous, almost liquid air, as the floor drops out from under them, and the walls crumple into nothing beneath a churning, pitchblende sky. In an instant, the recirculated atmosphere of the Death Star is sucked away, its chilly sterility replaced with great wafts of smoke, its tidy corridors with craggy bluffs. The polished floor of the hanger bay is now a bubbling lake of fire.

 

Obi Wan feels the pressure of blade on blade abate before he sees his opponent bounce away from him, hefting its (suddenly blue?) saber as if to strike again, only to drop its weapon and fall to its knees with a piercing, throat-tearing scream. At first, the Jedi master's eyes can hardly parse what is before them- Gone is the great mechanical dragon with whom he was, just seconds before, locked in mortal combat. Gone the billowing cape, the scarlet blade, the gleaming, chitinous shell. Instead, lissome limbs clad in dark linen, a scrunching, meat-red human face, a mop of sweaty, unwashed hair.

 

Obi Wan is frozen in place, his saber still drawn in self-defense, but the creature that was his adversary has given up the fight in favor of wailing, and thrashing, and tearing at its own throat in hysteria. The thing lurches and coughs, eyes huge with terror as it takes a deep breath- And then another and another, until it is hyperventilating, unable to stop.

 

“ _What-_ ” the creature shrieks, a raw, discordant gurgling sound barely recognizable as human speech. Each word is punctuated by a rattling gasp. “ _What- is- this-?! How-?_ ”

 

“I don't-” Obi Wan staggers back as the creature lunges to its feet, a sooty blur, and reclaims its dropped saber, bringing it down upon him in a savage, azure arc. The Jedi master blocks out of pure reflex, his body reacting to a threat which his mind is still struggling to comprehend. The creature advances, using its blade as a bludgeon, crashing it against his own again and again in a frenzy of powerful but artless strokes.

 

“ _How are you doing this!?_ ” it screams. “ _Get out of my mind!_ ” But as suddenly as it started, the thing stops swinging and hurls its lightsaber to the ground, rocking its body and grasping at its clothes in confusion and anguish. It looks up, eyes filled with tears of rage, and hisses: “You must know by now, your deceptions are useless. You can't win, old man.”

 

“Anakin-?” Obi Wan hears himself blurt.

 

For indeed, it is Anakin Skywalker's face which looms before him now, all spittle and teeth- Though there can be no mistaking the crazed yellow eyes of the Sith.

  

* * *

 

 

Darth Vader is swaying like a stalk of grain in the wind, his brain scarcely able to assimilate the sensory information it is suddenly receiving from his... _legs?_ Worse is this terrible, unrelenting urge to breathe. A feeling of suffocation, followed by intense relief- inhale, exhale, over and over, every other second.

 

 _It never stops!_ a part of his mind is screaming. _It's never enough air! You have to keep swallowing more, again and again, forever and ever!_

 

His skin feels raw and naked all over, defenseless against this punishing heat, this poisonous air. He is filthy with soot and sweat, shaking with fever and adrenalin. He brings this _object_ , this smooth, immaculate hand up to his mouth and... _tastes_ it, and it's- salty, coppery, like meat, like flesh. Like a frightened puppy, it curls away from him. There is pain, sharp, but minor. His teeth, he realizes, have drawn blood, his own. The hand is his own. Too, the arm, the shoulder, the legs below. Withal, the throat, the face, the belly, the breast. All his own, all members of the same.

 

 _Oh..._ he blinks, the pother of confusion lifting. _Oh! I am alive!_

 

His heart still hammers, his lungs push and pull. He straightens his back, and tries- moving, flexing, these muscles, these limbs. And it's- _oh_. He almost _swoons,_ to suddenly find himself in command of this, this glorious animal. It feels so- Is this what good feels like-? It feels _so good_.

 

His gaze scatters around before coming to rest again on Kenobi. Not that imposter, that gray-faced old man from a moment before, but the real Kenobi, the object of his most sublime hatred lo these many years. Face to face at last with his Jedi nemesis- Oh, to taste the traitors' blood-

 

“You fool!” he roars, hefting his saber yet again. “You think to unbalance me with this... parlor trick of yours?”

 

But Kenobi is shaking his head and slowly backing away as his Force-presence roils with genuine confusion and fear. Whatever this is, it is not his doing.

 

Vader pauses, trying to breathe normally. Sensory overload has scrambled his thoughts. His eyes have looked, but they have not seen. “Is this-” he sputters, his mind catching up. “Are we on-?”

 

“We are on Mustafar,” Kenobi says carefully, maintaining his fencing stance. “We seem to have... _traveled_.”

 

Vader frowns. Traveled? Across time and space. Right into the middle of their previous duel.

 

“No-” he blinks. “That is- not possible. This must be-” he gestures vaguely, “some sort of shared vision.”

 

Their eyes meet, and the two men stand in silence for a brief eternity, as the wild, igneous landscape churns and belches around them in all its incontrovertible physical reality, as their own changed bodies pulse with solid, undeniable life. The Force seems to encircle them both, watching, goading, prodding.

 

“This is no vision,” Kenobi breathes.

 

“No matter,” says Vader. “We are at saber points now, as then. Nothing has changed.”

 

* * *

 

 The attack is swift, but he is ready.

 

Vader is all raw power and frenzy, unused to his body, awkward on his feet, but so flushed with potent dark energies it hardly seems to matter. Obi Wan blocks him again and again, sweating under the constant assault, mind racing, serenity in shambles.

 

Even with all his discipline and training, the Jedi master is struggling for focus in the face of such impossible circumstances. For one thing, his body is a constant distraction. He can feel, as he sidesteps and parries, that the weight of two harsh decades has been lifted from his bones. He fights down a thrill, alarmed at his own... _enjoyment_ of this, but it's impossible to deny. Strength is coursing through him like a drug.

 

The fight escalates as both combatants grow surer in their movements, surrendering to muscle memory, falling into practiced forms. Their twin blue sabers are a spinning blur, sparking and hissing with every rapid clash. Obi Wan grapples for control, the savage momentum of their swordplay threatening to smother the last of his reason.

 

“Stop!” he cries, repelling the Sith with a mighty Force-push. “What good can possibly come of this? We both know how this ends!”

 

He is bluffing, of course. His chances of winning this duel a second time are slim to none. His opponent possesses all of Anakin's physical prowess, along with all of Vader's knowledge and experience.

 

But he has to try. Stars, he has to do _something_.

“You would do it again, then?” Vader sneers. “You have no regrets about the manner in which we parted, _my Master?_ ”

 

“That's not what I meant,” Obi Wan huffs, tears pricking at his eyes- Or maybe it's just the smoke.

 

“Of course, I would not be so foolish as to make the same mistake as before-”

 

“Please,” he entreats softly. “I don't want this. I didn't want it the first time-”

 

How many times has he turned this scene over in his mind, rereading the script of their confrontation, reliving every heartbreaking gesture, expression, and word? Wishing he had said something else, done something else. If he is indeed here, now, again, then surely it must be for some purpose. Can he create a different outcome, now? Is it possible to set things right?

 

Vader snorts, or tries to, unaccustomed to having air travel through his nose. “I seem to remember that it was _you_ who came to _me_ in search of a fight. Both times, in fact. But your hypocrisy is such-” He freezes, his gaze fixing upon some point beyond the Jedi's shoulder.

 

When Obi Wan turns to look, Vader is already darting past him toward the object of his distraction. And then the Sith is on his knees again, screaming to the smoldering sky:

 

“ _Why would you show me this-?_ ” he wails, tearing at his matted hair. “ _No- No, please- Spirits, have mercy- It is too cruel-!_ ”

 

For sprawled across the metallic surface of the landing platform, about thirty meters away, is a battered, unconscious, and very pregnant Padmé Naberrie. And Vader is slumped over her, a wretched, miserable, wrung-out thing.

 

Obi Wan swallows. This is his chance.

 

“It's not a vision,” he calls, thinking quickly. “She is alive!” He dashes up to stand above them, as close as he dares. “Listen, help me get her on the ship. We can still save her!”

 

“ _No..._ ” Vader moans. When he looks up, tears are streaming down his face- No longer scrunched and twisted by anger, it is rendered smooth and handsome again by despair. “We cannot,” he whispers.

 

His eyes are a heart-stopping blue.

 

* * *

 

 

With legs folded as for meditation, and sabers clipped to belts, civility comes remarkably easily. While Padmé lies inside the sealed sleep-chamber, and Threepio pilots the skiff, there is little to do but sit on the floor of the cockpit and wait. It is difficult, Vader reflects, to stay angry when nothing seems to matter or make sense. This new state of affairs is sheer nonsense to his mind, but pure bliss to his body. The texture of clothing against all this smooth, sensitive skin- That alone is enough to drown out every other concern.

 

His attention has been riveted, for several silent minutes, upon that space between Kenobi's high, brown collar and his beard, that centimeter band of milky throat. His pulse quickens as he considers that- beneath that uniform, that Jedi husk- Kenobi is _all flesh_.

 

There is no substance in the universe like flesh. Nothing else which _resonates_ with the Force the way it does. Plastics and metals can be imbued with intelligence, and even emotion- but only the flesh rings with spirit. How precious, how singular it is. How he has missed it. He hadn't even realized how much until now.

 

And _Kenobi's_ flesh- So warm, and firm, and clean, and chaste, so rich with midichlorians. He feels a hot wash of desire. It's uncanny how little difference there is between _this_ feeling and his rage to hunt the Jedi down. But then, he reflects, the thirst for vengeance is really just another form of longing.

 

He thinks of Padmé, poor thing. Her kisses and caresses seem eons ago and lightyears away. It was awfully foolish of her, to follow him to Mustafar. And foolish of _him_ , to elect such a fragile vessel for his hopes. But there is no sense in dwelling upon it.

 

“She _will_ die,” he says simply. “There is nothing we can do.”

 

“How can you say that?” Kenobi rasps, his voice pinched with unshed tears. “ _All_ you cared about was saving her, and now, given the chance-”

 

“But that's just it.” Vader gives a distant, mournful sigh. “There is no chance.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Since last we met,” he scowls, “I have learned a great deal more about my powers of foresight than the Jedi ever saw fit to teach me. The future is always in motion, true, but it is not without its patterns.” He tilts his head back against the plasteel panelling behind him and closes his eyes as if in sleep, palms open atop his thighs. “It was my very mania to save Padmé's life which killed her. Her death is an inevitability, now. A closed causal loop. If we had come back even moments earlier, perhaps it could have been averted. But we are too late, by design I suspect.”

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“Only because you know nothing of the Dark Side,” he says sharply, though it is unclear whether his recrimination is intended for his Jedi nemesis, or for himself. There is enough, in any case, to go around.

 

“Tell me then, oh, Scourge of Worlds,” Kenobi raises an eyebrow. “The Darkness- Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

 

“Impertinent fool,” Vader gnars. “I thought you wanted an explanation!”

 

“Oh, by all means.”

 

He squirms as the silence stretches on between them, crackling with familiarity and strangeness. The natural, cozy way their bodies seem to want to be around each other coats everything in a confusing and frustrating warmth which constantly derails his train of thought.

 

“I more than killed her,” he says quietly, looking away. “I... _undid_ her. She is undone. I reached inside of her and- The power was so new to me then, I- I didn't realize what I was doing-” He struggles for a moment, caught off guard by fresh sadness. All his wounds are so old- They always ache, but seldom sting. “I cut the tether which grounds her in this life. She is slipping away.”

 

“I suppose I'll have to take your word for it, Darth, being ignorant of such things. It would never have occurred to me that the Force could be put to such a grotesque purpose.”

 

“How innocent you are,” he hums wistfully, peering out at the Jedi from between fluttering golden lashes. “It's quite charming.” He leans forward until a thin blue stripe bisects his face, a shadow cast by the overhead grille. “Can you believe there was a time when I thought you knew everything?” His scorn is tempered by weariness. He stretches his arms over his head, determined to enjoy the illusion of wholeness for as long as this peculiar vision lasts.

 

“You cannot undo it, then?”

 

“I don't know _how_ ,” he sighs. “I don't know how I did it in the first place. I did not even _learn_ of her fate until my master explained to me what had happened- And that was much later.” He strokes the flesh hand over his linen tunic and leather tabards, savoring the contrast of textures. “There is nothing to be done.”

 

“But surely- it's worth a try. Isn't it conceivable that the Emperor might have lied to you?”

 

“Oh, no,” he gives a mirthless laugh. “My master never lies. Lying is for amateurs- like _you_ , Obi Wan. When you are as powerful as _he_ is, you can afford to tell the truth.”

 

“But you _didn't_ kill her on Mustafar,” Kenobi says softly, gazing helplessly into his lap. “At least, not immediately. She lived long enough to deliver the children. And I've always thought that maybe if _you_ had been there-”

 

“What do you mean _children-?_ ”

 

“Oh yes, of course,” he looks back up. “You never learned of them, and so you wouldn't have known. There were twins.”

 

Vader freezes, “And they- _They survived-?_ ” he mouths, almost soundlessly, his breath growing short.

 

“Indeed, they flourished. They were... remarkable children. Padmé would have been infinitely proud.”

 

In an instant, his eyes turn murderous and flashing, and the entire ship is vibrating with his rage. “ _You- knew them-?  You- kept them-?_ ” he chokes out, a few syllables at a time. “ _The Jedi- hid them- from me-? My own- children-?_ ” Before Master Kenobi can so much as confirm or deny this, the Sith Lord is on top of him, and there is a durasteel hand around his charming, milky throat.

 

(When the sounds of a death-struggle erupt in the cockpit behind him, Threepio has the sense not to turn around and look.)

 

Vader is insensible with fury. Yet another betrayal to add to the list! Yet another reason why Kenobi must be made to pay in blood! At long last, his hated enemy is writhing beneath him, struggling for air. _Do it!_ some part of his mind is screaming. _Take his breath, as he took yours._ Oh, those silver eyes- judging him, condemning him, even now! Those cruel, deceitful lips.

 

That smooth, white neck.

 

And then something in him shifts. And some other part of his mind is interjecting: _You are so close to him- His body is beneath you- He is all flesh-_ and before he knows it, he finds himself bowing down in order to taste, in order to kiss- And it's so- It's- _oh!_ It feels like- _Is this what pleasure feels like?_

 

“ _You_ ,” he rasps. He is gripping Kenobi's pretty skull with both hands, as he brings their faces centimeters apart. _“You took this away from me._ _And now..._ ” He bites at the high collar, paring it away. “ _You are going to give it back._ ”

  

Vader is pressing hard into Kenobi's body, hungry for the bright energies that swirl within- For a Sith's Force-sense is drawn to power like a nexu's terrible maw to the scent of blood. He reaches out with his mind- And what strikes him is unthinkable, though perhaps it should have been obvious.

 

“We- We are bonded,” he says breathlessly.

 

But of course they are. Their bond it still intact, for the simple reason that he hasn't yet destroyed it- That came later in their duel, during their shouting match above the molten sea. He remembers pulling it out by the roots, carelessly maiming both of their souls in his rage. But now- That hasn't happened yet. In fact, it need not happen at all. He leans cautiously into it, the bond, and it's- _oh, Stars_ -

 

And suddenly, the body beneath him is reciprocating his touches. Suddenly, there are shy hands stroking his hair, a soft hum vibrating against his chest. Arms are wrapping around him, a bright, sentient mind is embracing him.

 

“ _Anak_ -” Kenobi sobs, but before he can say the name, Vader's mouth is on his, drinking his breath.

 

The bond is slightly frayed, but largely whole, and as they both lean into it, it hurts like pressing on a bruise. But it's a good kind of hurt, like healing, and the more they both press, the more the frayed parts are smoothed over again. And it's like muscle fibers, the way the tissue tears a bit, and then grows back stronger-

 

Darth Vader's mind is reeling. This _can't_ have been what it was like. Being bonded with Obi Wan _can't_ have felt this good. He was angry about _this?_ He wanted more than _this?_ Impossible! What arcane knowledge, what dark power could have been worth the loss of- _this?_

 

No, there is no way Obi Wan's mind ever felt like this against his, because if it did- It would mean he had been loved all along. And if he _was_ loved all along...

 

_Then it was all for nothing. You destroyed everything, for nothing._

 

“Threepio!” he calls hoarsely. “Set a course for Naboo.”

 

“Very good, Master Anakin,” the droid replies, his synthetic voice tinny with distress. “Do forgive my presumption, but- Mistress Padmé. Will she be alright?”

 

“I'm afraid not.”

 

“Oh dear. I am terribly sorry.”

 

And with that, Darth Vader, perhaps the galaxy's foremost authority on terrible sorriness, closes his eyes and buries his face in the join of his former-master's neck and shoulder, as the rush of hyperspace shimmers over their excellent bodies, and considers the possibility that this might not be a dream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, I have suffered another crack attack.
> 
> One of these days it's going to kill me.


	2. Chapter 2

The Naberrie family immediately summons the best doctor their considerable fortune can afford to their spreading estate in the Lake Country, but after the administration of pain-killing drugs and the swift delivery of two healthy infants, there is little left to do but weep and fret. Padmé Naberrie, noble and fair, of eminent word and valiant deed, is rapidly dying, and no one can seem to say why. The most sophisticated emdee droids available are unable to identify the cause of her weakening pulse, her shortening breath.

 

The skilled surgeon-midwife, a human woman with short, graying hair and sever, hawk-like eyes, leads Sir Ruwee and Lady Jobal into an adjoining room to discuss their daughter's worsening condition. She is considering risky treatments, violent interventions, for which she will need their consent. Irrelevancies, Vader thinks. By the time they have made a decision, the patient will already be dead.

 

She is lying in her girlhood bed, atop a sumptuous yellow and gold brocade as he kneels beside her, enveloping her tiny, perfect hand within the crudely mismatched pair of his own. Her parents, he knows, maintain these palatial chambers just to house her during her infrequent visits, a shocking waste of space if you ask him. He considers, not for the first time, how very different his wife's upbringing must have been from his own, and wonders, with a pang, which one the lives of their children more closely resembled, hidden away from him for nineteen years.

 

“Take care of them, when I am gone,” she murmurs, as though she has read his mind. “If you don't, I'll find out about it, and I'll have my revenge.” Her eyes are closed, her face smiling and serene, and beaded with sweat like a pale blossom with dew.

 

“ _I'm so sorry- I didn't mean it-_ ” he heaves and shudders. “ _Stay with me-_ ” He is trying desperately to reach inside of her and mend what he has broken, but the fine, pearly threads of her are slipping away, unraveling and scattering like soft, feathery spores across the black, fertile blanket of eternity. His power shakes the windows and walls, but it's no use. He is all blunt fist and no fingers, even now, even now, and he can't get a grip.

 

“It is time,” she says simply. The rich, yellow fabric beneath her is ruined, as syrupy blood begins to pool between her thighs.

 

“ _Don't leave me again,_ ” he sobs.

 

But his pleas go ignored. She is beyond him now, in a place without pain or fear.

 

“Everyone I love is in this house,” she hums, falling still. “I am at peace.” After a moment though, her eyes flick open, as if she has suddenly remembered one last thing. “ _Anakin-_ ” she croaks, her voice beginning to fade. He bows his neck to let her stroke his burning, tear-stained face:

 

“ _There is... still good... in you..._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Things happen fast.

 

Obi Wan is standing at Padmé's bedside, while a woman he has never met (Padmé's sister Sola, he is informed) is weeping loudly into his shoulder. His brow creases ruefully as he contemplates the surgeon-midwife's medkit, left open on an end table. Replete with glass capsules of green and teal liquid, anti-hemorrhaging agents, single-use injection devices, miles of bacta-treated gauze- But all the cleverest tools of the healer are useless against the subtle poison that is the Dark Side of the Force.

 

Anakin Skywalker (or whoever currently inhabits his body) is kneeling on the floor in front of them, reverently laying his head against Padmé's still breast, and making a quiet, choked sound. Then, seeming to compose himself, he stands, and turns his back to the great senator, revealing her in full.

 

With a trickle of blood from her nose, and a smile on her lips, she is dead.

 

Sola screams.

 

Immediately, a dozen people are rushing into the room, more members of House Naberrie who Obi Wan has never met. There is yelling, and shoving, the end table is felled, and glass capsules of bright medicine are sent skipping across the floor. And then the scene of grief is receding, and the Jedi master is being dragged by the wrist through a series of chambers, and along a dark, tree-lined terrace, and out into a magnificent garden filled with the songs of insects and the soft night air. And before he can ask what's happening there are lips on his own and pair of arms slung hungrily around his neck.

 

“Comfort me,” Vader demands sharply, coming up at last for breath.

 

“ _What-?_ ” Obi Wan gasps, uncomprehending, the instant his mouth is freed.

 

“My wife has just died... again. I believe it is customary to offer comfort.”

 

“I don't... _what-?_ ”

 

“Oh, Padmé...” the Sith sighs, regarding his boots. “Such a fine flower. How I despoiled her. It's funny,” he muses. “I remember her being so worldly, so glamorous. But I was young when I knew her, and easily awed. She seems a mere girl to me now.”

 

“Of course,” Obi Wan rolls his eyes. “Because _you've_ grown so mature. I suppose that explains your shocking blitheness. Is this what you think passes for wisdom? For Stars' sake, you _watched_ her die this time. Are you not grieved?”

 

“I grieved for _years_ ,” Vader spits. “She was as good as dead from the moment we got here! What do you want me to-” Tears are pouring down his face.

 

“I-” Obi Wan falters. “I'm sorry.”

 

“Back then it was too much feeling, and now it's not enough. There is no pleasing you at all, is there?!” He pivots suddenly, throwing up his arms in frustration. “Well, Kenobi? Won't you do as I ask?”

 

“But what-” Obi Wan sputters, shaking his head. “What could you possibly want from _me?_ Apart from that 'vengeance' your lot is always going on about, I mean,” he says dryly.

 

“Isn't it obvious?” Vader cries, eyes huge and glassy with desire. “Feel this!” He presses their lips together again, eagerly squeezing Obi Wan's body against his own. “It feels _good_ , doesn't it?” he asks breathlessly, dragging trembling hands through Obi Wan's hair. “Better than even my fondest memories of it- Better than _anything_ \- Surely even _you_ aren't so utterly insensate-”

 

“You've stopped trying to kill me, then?” Obi Wan snorts. “I didn't realize we'd established that.”

 

“It wouldn't be to much purpose _now_ , would it?”

 

“You intend to spare me,” he scowls, recoiling in disgust, “just so that you can use me for-?” He shudders, feeling that dark soul intertwining with his own, humming with lush, savage emotions as it alternately strangles and strokes him.

 

And suddenly, the reality of it freezes his blood: They are bonded, a Jedi and a Sith, in the most sacred and intimate manner imaginable. Never, in all recorded history, has there been such a monstrous, unnatural union. And that's not even the worst of it. The worst of it, is that Vader is right:

 

It feels _good_.

 

So good, in fact, that he can't even seem to be properly horrified by it. Can't seem to summon the will to tear himself away. He has spent a lifetime striving to remain pure, to shield himself from the corrupting touch of the Dark Side- But this particular touch is so welcome, so familiar... It feels like- _Like coming home at the end of a long and perilous journey. Like being bathed in rain, after eons spent wandering the desert. Like the closest thing to love in all its fullness he has ever allowed himself to feel._

 

“It is very simple, old friend,” Vader is saying. “My only objective now is to avoid pain and suffering, and to seek comfort and pleasure.” Softly nuzzling their faces together, he breathes these words into the Jedi's blush-brightened ear. “This is it,” he murmurs. “This is enjoyment. It doesn't get any better than this. When you knew me, I was young and foolish- I didn't realize that the most precious thing of all was already mine, until I had lost it. I thought there was more. _He promised me more-_ ” His grip around Obi Wan's shoulders tightens dangerously, as he gathers up all his pain and anger and plunges it into the warm, blue ocean of their bond, hoping to drown it. “But there is no more. I have been from one end of this galaxy to the other, and I have yet to find anything which surpasses the sweetness of spirit-bearing flesh.”

 

“But what-” Obi Wan swallows. “What _exactly_ do you want from _me?_ ” His voice is quiet and strained with fear, his body brittle with stillness. Could the price of a different outcome, a better world, really be... _this?_

 

Vader pulls back so that they are eye-to-eye. “I want continuous access to this,” he says. “Your flesh, your spirit. It has to be _yours_ , you see,” he smiles darkly. “It would take me years to build a bond like this with anyone else.”

 

“And why in the nine hells should I grant you such... 'access,' as you so crudely put it?”

 

Vader laughs. “I am not foolish enough to think there won't be conditions.” He presses their foreheads together, growling keen, and covetous, and low. “Tell me what I must do, in order to have you.”

 

Obi Wan's thoughts are tumbling, cacophonous, but one truth rings out above the din: Every moment which Darth Vader spends moaning and sighing into the front of his tunics is a moment he doesn't spend running around terrorizing the galaxy.

 

This is it. He may not get another chance to influence events. He grasps the Sith's head with both hands, forcing the other to hold his gaze. Thinking quickly, he speaks in a voice cool and firm. “You will cooperate with me, and refrain from violence.”

 

“Within reason,” Vader snorts. “I can't promise I won't do what I must.”

 

“You will renounce your Sith master, and sever your bond with him.”

 

“It is already done.”

 

“And...” Obi Wan sighs, subduing the twin beasts of agony and hope in his heart. “You will answer to the name your mother gave you.”

 

The dark creature's eyes flash with reckless ire, but they are blue, thank the Stars, still blue. “You _would_ like that wouldn't you?” he hisses. “I suppose you want me to call you 'Master' as well?”

 

“That isn't necessary.”

 

“But you'd _like_ it.” He caresses Obi Wan's cheek with a kind of brutal, mock-affection. “It would give you _pleasure_.” He laughs caustically. But then something grips his features, a look of naked, desperate, animal loneliness, and when he opens his mouth again, it is Anakin who speaks. “Listen, Obi Wan, I- All the things we believed in, none of them matter. I've been everywhere now, I've seen all of it, what it all amounts to, and there's nothing-” He takes a shuddering breath, fisting his natural hand in Obi Wan's hair. “The chance to feel more pleasure is the only reason to continue existing. That is what I believe now. There is nothing else.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is kicking my ass, so updates will be slow. 
> 
> But leaving a comment is a great way to motivate me. /shameless/


	3. Chapter 3

“Of course I don't believe a word of it,” Sola Naberrie is saying, her whole face briny and inflamed from crying. “The way Padmé spoke of you... I know the Jedi would never betray the Republic. But it's all over the holonet now. They are calling you enemies of the state!”

 

She is holding the newborn boy in her arms, feeding him from a silver phial of nutri-laiche while his sister sleeps fitfully curled in a hovering bassinet, having already drunk her fill. While the agony of her loss still rings raw through the Force, the infants' soothing presence has helped Sola regain some of her composure.

 

“The Chancellor wishes to eliminate all opposition,” says the man who is, at least notionally, called Anakin. “Reports of a Jedi coup are... exaggerated. But they offer him a convenient pretense to have them destroyed.”

 

Obi Wan keeps some distance, watching this exchange from the hall. His gaze wanders over the sumptuously painted walls, a satiny blue lacquer under swirling gold lief, before snagging upon a small graven mirror. He starts at the sight of his own reflection, momentarily convinced he is being accosted by some stranger. And in a way, he _is_.

 

The man staring back at him is haggard, and sweaty, and covered with soot, but it's nothing a shower wouldn't cure. Beneath the grime, his copper hair and beard are neatly trimmed, his skin rosy and smooth, his features kind and affable, and even _boyish_. He feels a flush of vertigo. He finds he does not recognize this dapper young gentleman at all, and his heart seizes in disbelief to think that this fellow was ever himself.

 

He had had little need for a mirror, after all, in his desert hovel. Along with the rest of the galaxy, he had forgotten this man's face.

 

 _I- I was beautiful_ , he thinks dumbly.

 

He breathes, watching the stranger's chest rise and fall. Every movement of the stranger's muscles and ligaments is so smooth, and decisive, and satisfying. He became intimately aware of the power and grace of this form the moment he found himself inside of it. But he was not at all prepared for its loveliness.

 

_I didn't know. Never thought much of myself back then. No one ever told me. I didn't know I was-_

 

From childhood, he had been trained to view his body as a tool, a weapon, an 'instrument of the Force.' He was its steward, its wielder, but never its owner. It was never _his_ to take pride in, _his_ to enjoy. He had thanked the Force daily for blessing him with such a resilient, healthy, useful form. It had never even occurred to him to search his own image for beauty.

 

But now- He is not so naïve anymore. Two decades in the Outer Rim could not fail to teach him the value in which flesh is held, as well as its price. Those who find themselves owned by others, he has learned, take little comfort in the notion that all beings are the property of the Force.

 

He flexes his hands, silently claiming this, this lovely vessel, as his very own. To refuse sovereignty over this body as the Jedi taught him to do, to abdicate personal ownership, would be an insult to those who are denied such rights. This, the slaves of Tatooine have taught him- A greater lesson about the meaning of freedom than the vaunted Guardians of the Old Republic ever could.

 

He feels a surge of sadness. The Jedi may have been wrong about a great many things, but they certainly didn't deserve what they got- _What they are getting now_ , he shudders. It's the beginning of the end, all over again.

 

“What will you do?” Sola is asking, as if to lend voice to his turbulent thoughts. “Where will you go? And what about the children?”

 

“My children,” Vader pronounces, “will accompany me, of course. Wherever I decide to go.”

 

“But surely, they would be safer-”

 

“Palpatine would easily find them among their mothers' wealthy, famous relatives.”

 

“But-” she sputters. “What would he want with them? They are not Jedi. They have done nothing!”

 

“The Force is strong with them. He will want them for his own purposes. They _cannot_ remain here.”

 

“I don't know.” She is cradling the boy close, shaking her head. “It doesn't seem safe. You must speak with my parents-”

 

“I am their father!” Vader snaps. “I will decide what is to be done with them.”

 

At this, Obi Wan takes a step towards them, ready to intervene if necessary.

 

“Of course,” Sola flinches. “I meant no disrespect. But you can hardly take a pair of newborn infants on the run with you! I know my parents can help-”

 

“I am perfectly capable of protecting them on my own!” Vader gnars. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, before continuing stiffly. “I appreciate that your intentions towards me are good, but you and your family can be of no help against Darth Sidious.”

 

“Against _who?_ ” she frowns.

 

The erstwhile Sith lord sighs, trundling his hands in frustration. “I grow weary of this foolishness. This is not a negotiation.” He raises his natural hand in a subtle, sweeping gesture. “You will do as I say,” he commands.

 

“I will... do as you say?” she mimics, confused.

 

“You will hand my children over to me. You will remain in this room, and wait for your parents to return. And when they do, you will explain to them that Master Kenobi and I have gone away, and that they should not attempt to contact us. Perhaps someday, when the galaxy is as _I_ wish it to be, you will see your niece and nephew again. Until then, we must bid you farewell.”

 

And as he says, so it is, for once.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When they step out into the cool, violet night, the hovering bassinet gliding through the air before them, Darth Vader or Anakin Skywalker is moved to link arms with the Jedi master, holding him close as they walk along the garden path, out of sheer gladness.

 

“Well?” he grins. “My first order of business, accomplished without violence. Am I not satisfying your terms?”

 

“Thus far. But I'm a bit worried about what you plan to do next,” says Kenobi, raising an eyebrow sharply, though his mood seems vastly improved. He gives Vader's arm a gentle squeeze, and it's- _oh_ \- The Sith gasps, unprepared for the warm, pleasurable tinging that washes through him at this. The only thing better than touching is having his touches _returned_.

 

“ _More_ -” he swoons, turning his face into Kenobi's shoulder.

 

“Not here. We have to keep moving.” Then, after a moment: “Continue to meet my 'terms,' and I promise you, there will be more.”

 

“I shall hold you to it, old man,” he breathes.

 

Playing house with Obi Wan Kenobi? There's no way this is actually happening, but it's the sweetest dream he can remember. Gazing down into the bassinet, he feels impossibly, deliriously happy. _We'll be a family_ , that crazed, hungry, child-like part of his mind wants to say. _You, and me, and Luke, and Leia. That's what their mother named them. Luke and-_

 

“ _No-!_ ” he screams, recoiling from the other man as though burned. “ _It's impossible!_ ”

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“Leia-! Not _that_ Leia-!” he cries. But the Force confirms his intuition. He cannot un-know the truth. “Not _Princess_ Leia! Why didn't you tell me?!”

 

“It hadn't exactly... come up,” Kenobi blinks.

 

“Oh gods, _no!_ ” Vader is pacing back and forth in distress. The Princess. Of course. Hidden from him all this time, in plain sight. It's remarkable that he himself still hasn't learned any guile, with all the masters he's ever had being so clever and deceitful. “I knew her-” he chokes, eyes bulging with horror.

 

“Yes, I suppose you did, after a fashion.”

 

“No! You don't understand-!” he sobs dryly. “ _I hurt her-!_ ” The baby girl in front of them is still, her eyes closed in sleep- But all he can see is a young woman, her chocolate eyes lined with kohl and glittering with defiance. Her agony explodes across the Force as he drives the probe into her, but still she grits her teeth, and doesn't even scream.

 

“ _Do your worst, Vader!” she spits, spattering his red lenses. “I will never betray the Alliance!” Her head lolls back, mouth foaming, as she seizes with pain. “Billions know my name, you fool. Kill me now, and see how many of the oppressed rise up to fill my place!” She laughs the mad, mirthless laugh of a zealot._

 

_And suddenly darkness, like a crackle of plasma, fills his senses- But how? His master is nowhere near the Death Star._

 

_His heart freezes in realization. It is the Princess. It is her fear, her pain. Her power which shakes the walls and stains the air._

 

“She knew the location of the rebel base,” he is mouthing in anguish. “I- I _tortured_ her!” His vision is swimming with bright specks, like drunken stars. “But she- She didn't reveal anything. She was- so strong _. My daughter_ -” he gasps. “Padmé's daughter. So beautiful, so strong. And I _hurt_ her-!” He sways on his feet.

 

And then there are hands gripping his forearms, steadying him. Kenobi's breath is warm, their faces close.

 

“But in _this_ time, that hasn't happened yet,” the Jedi is saying. “And it never has to. You can make the choice, right now, never to hurt her.”

 

Vader nods convulsively. He should have recognized the Princess as his offspring before, when he sensed in her that uncanny echo of his own power, his own rage. He can see her now, her dark eyes turned a poisonous Sith-yellow, her rosy mouth an unforgiving line, a gnarled, corpse-like hand petting her long, silky hair-

 

“ _No_ -” he sobs. “ _Please, no-_ ” Shaking this vision from his head, he takes a moment to recover himself, and looks up with new resolve. “The Emperor will covet her power,” he says soberly. “But he must never be allowed to get his hands on her- On either of my children. He would- _ruin_ them.”

 

“I agree completely,” says Kenobi, his eyes crinkling poignantly. “Our purpose is the same.” He lays his hands on Vader's shoulders, and he is so close, so warm, all flesh-

 

“He is coming for us,” Vader rasps. “Even now, I can sense his intensions.” Every cell in his body longs to pull Kenobi to the ground, and roll him around in a bed of wildflowers, kissing his white throat until dawn. But instead:

 

“We must go.”

 

* * *

  

They are making their way through the dense forest which sets the Lake Country of Naboo apart from the somewhat less exclusive real estate on the other side. It is here, in a secluded clearing, where they have parked the skiff. A ship, of course, is no good without a destination in mind. And they haven't yet decided where to go.

 

“ _You_ ,” Vader gasps, stopping in his tracks as they cross the line of trees. “I should have known!” he berates himself. “I should have sensed you so close.” But then again, he has never met any other being so adept at clouding the Force and concealing their presence.

 

“It's quite understandable, my young apprentice,” the Dark Lord is saying, as he emerges from behind the skiff, a black shroud covering all but his claw-like hands and withered mouth. “I'm sure your mind was occupied with... _other things_ ,” he sneers. He gazes rapaciously into the bassinet, as he lifts the hood away from his terrible face. “Twins, I see. Congratulations, my boy. But... where is your lovely wife?”

 

“Dead,” Vader spits, positioning himself protectively in front of the children. Obi Wan moves to stand beside him, gloriously resolute and calm in a way that makes Vader's heart seize with fondness.

 

“And yet Kenobi is... still _alive_ , it seems.” Palpatine shakes his head in false pity. “I suppose he must have made some appeal to your feelings for him? I was afraid something like this would happen,” he sighs. “I should have known not to give you so much responsibility all at once.” He steps forward, into the flood lights of the skiff. His gray, wormlike skin looks damp and shiny in the forest atmosphere. “You see now, that for all his piety and pretended wisdom, your precious Jedi master could not save your wife. If you had simply slain him, and come to me, she might still be alive. But alas, you allowed him to lead you astray, yet again. I don't think I even need to punish you,” he says, in a mockery of that indulgent, grandfatherly tone which won Anakin over as a child. “I trust you've learned your lesson. In fact,” he smiles wickedly, “kill him now, in front of me, and all shall be forgiven.”

 

Vader barks with laughter, and remains standing where he is.

 

“ _Very well,_ ” Palpatine scowls, his yellow eyes igniting with sudden rage. “If you are truly so useless that you cannot complete such a simple task, I suppose I'll have to do it for you!” He bares his teeth, unleashing a wave of lightning in the Jedi's direction, but Vader dives to intercept it, absorbing the power with his bare natural hand.

 

“You should not have come here,” he hisses. “I am going to destroy you.”

 

“You test my patience, my apprentice!” the Dark Lord snaps. “I am being extremely lenient. Do not give me cause to change my mind!”

 

Vader throws his head back, howling with deranged laughter, hot tongues of blue-violet energy licking around his fingertips. “You fool!” he cries. “You think I still belong to you? Never! Never again!” He lunges with his one good hand, unleashing a hail of lighting which almost knocks the old man off his feet.

 

“ _What-?_ ” the wrinkled Sith chokes, his yellow gaze lifting in indignation and... _fear_.

 

“I don't need you anymore!” Vader is carrying on, mad, joyful, sonorous laughter ringing forth from him like a shower of bells. He throws his arms up, as if addressing the night sky and heaven itself. “Look at me! Look at how _beautiful_ I am!” He runs his own hands sensuously over his face and through his tangled hair, as if he can hardly believe that this body is his. “It makes your mouth water, doesn't it, you filthy old hag? Look, yes. But you cannot touch. No, never again!”

 

He draws the Force to himself, moaning orgastically as it floods him with power like never before. His flesh tingles all over, so young, so alive, every cell a golden pearl of energy exploding with strength. Palpatine is hunched before him, pathetic in his confusion, his desperate mind reaching for the darkness in search of some weapon or shield.

 

“Now _die!_ ” Vader gasps, with a froth of giggles.

 

He doesn't even draw his lightsaber- he just surges forward and tears the old man's head from his body with his bare hands, like a hunk of wet clay. A geyser of blood rains over him, and he glories in it, tasting it, licking his lips as it pours over his chest and face. The Dark Lord's body falls to the ground like a sack of yams, inert and misshapen.

 

Vader gurgles and spits, his mouth filling with saliva as he laughs and laughs. “Look on me!” he screams to the headless corpse at his feet. “Fear me! I am the last of the Sith!” The ground vibrates beneath him, his power rattling the whole forest like a quake. He can do anything now, and no one in the galaxy can stop him. His pulse is racing, his mind spinning with possibilities-

 

Until a single sound pierces his consciousness. The girl-child, Leia, is crying.

 

He turns around, his tunic soaked with blood, and holds the gorgon's head up by its wispy hair.

 

The children! Padmé's children. Now that he can do anything, what will he do with them? _Will you corrupt them, ruin them,_ mocks one of the voices in his soul, _just as you yourself were corrupted, ruined?_ He squeezes his eyes shut, a memory of the Princess' pain echoing through his mind like a scream down a long corridor. He doesn't want that at all, he thinks, panicking. He doesn't want to hurt his children. But he doesn't know what to do. He looks around wildly, as if searching for some tool in his mechanic's kit.

 

He needs help. He needs guidance. He needs... _Master_.

 

He looks up to see Kenobi, his hands extended as if to mollify a wild beast, a look of terror on his face.

 

“Anakin, _please_ -” he implores.

 

“No,” says Vader, advancing on the Jedi. “Don't beg me. _Command_ me.”

 

* * *

 

As the blood-soaked demon approaches him, Obi Wan struggles for breath.

 

“Palpatine failed,” Vader smiles, tossing the severed head aside with a kind of playful disgust. “Now, it is your turn. Do you have what it takes to control me?”

 

“Anakin-”

 

“Keep in mind, I am the 'Chosen One.'” he tilts his head prettily, rolling his eyes. “To control me is to control the galaxy. So, the stakes are quite high.” He hums merrily. “I could kill you right now, without too much trouble, couldn't I?”

 

“Undoubtedly,” Obi Wan swallows.

 

“Well, don't just beg for your life like a cretin. _Command_ me. Make me submit to you. Why should I call _you_ 'Master,' instead of him?” He indicates the severed head, rolled gaping-neck-hole-up on the ground.

 

Obi Wan looks down, gathering courage, at his own finely formed hands. “Because I have what you need,” he says, quietly. “I can do something for you that he never could.” Growing bolder, he takes a step forward, though his senses recoil from the powerful stench of blood. “I can love you,” he murmurs. With a trembling hand, he tucks a fugitive lock of hair behind the dark one's ear. “Even now, after everything... I can still summon some love for you,” he says, as if awed by himself. Wrapping his arms around Vader's neck, he pulls him into a brutal, iron-flavored kiss, until they are both drenched in the same blood and sweat.

 

“You are helpless against that,” Obi Wan mouths.

 

And it's true. Vader had intended to make Kenobi work for it, to put up more of a fight, but he finds he can't. The overwhelming feeling of _softwarmtender_ against his skin shatters his control in an instant.

 

“ _Oh, yes_ ,” he gasps, his knees threatening to give way beneath him as the Jedi strokes his hair, his shoulders, the back of his neck. “ _It's so good. Please more, it's so good-!_ ” Almost any physical pain he can withstand- But pleasure devastates him. It's just been _so_ long, so long since _anything_ has felt good _at all_. It doesn't take much to reduce him to whimpering incoherence.

 

“Shh...” Obi Wan hushes, kissing his brow.

 

Minutes pass in this way, simply holding each other, gently swaying in the still night air. And the Force pulses and resonates around them, Jedi and Sith, embracing one another, stained red with the salty syrup of life and death, for this, at last, is balance.

 

“My children,” Vader sighs at length, tucking his head under Obi Wan's chin. “You will help me care for them, won't you, Master? My beautiful children.”

 

“Your children are a gift,” Obi Wan smiles, sadly. “A new hope for the galaxy. You should be very proud of them,” he says, reaching surreptitiously inside his sleeve. “But you cannot be trusted with them,” he breathes into Vader's ear, as he uncaps the glass tube of teal liquid, its needle primed to deliver a powerful sedative...

 

...and plunges it directly into Vader's neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out- Darth Vader has become so dangerously genre-savvy he's realized that he's the Macguffin! Meanwhile, lest we forget, our favorite mild-mannered, virginal space monk is still a crafty mother fucker.


	4. Chapter 4

He remembers this part, all too well.

 

This is the part where he wakes to find himself in the care of his master. The part where his master explains to him what has been Padmé's, and therefore his own, fate. The part where he learns what clever work has been made of his ruined body. The part where he opens his eyes, blinking away the chilly afterimages of some gruesome nightmare, only to realize that the nightmare is his life.

 

This is the part where he screams.

 

“Shh-! You are safe, Anakin! Don't be afraid.”

 

He is lying flat on his back, and Master is looming over him with bright, expectant eyes. Any moment now, the operating table will be ponderously raised, and he will burst forth from his restraints and take his first lumbering steps-

 

But Master is not playing along, not saying his lines.

 

“You won't be pleased with this, Anakin,” he sighs. “But in fairness, you did issue the challenge yourself.”

 

“Wha...?” Darth Vader mouths weakly. This is not the scene he remembers. He is lying, not on a cold surgical slab, but in a warm, soft bed. Instead of his fearsome armor, he is dressed in fine, thermal sleep-clothes. Instead of the dark, metallic operating theater, he is in a sparsely furnished, bright-white room. And instead of Darth Sidious-

 

“You asked me if I could control you,” says Kenobi, soberly. “I daresay I can.”

 

“You couldn't- before-” Vader mumbles, working the numbness from his mouth.

 

“True enough,” Kenobi smiles. “But if you are not the foolish young man I once knew... Well, I am not the man you knew either.” He is seated on the edge of the mattress, his posture cozy and intimate, leaning over his captive like a parent reading a bedtime story to their child. “They say grief changes a person. And you _have_ grieved me, haven't you, Padawan?” he hums, eerie in his patience and calm. “You have been _faithless_...” he pronounces. And there is something uncharacteristically possessive in his tone, a glint of madness in his silver eyes.

 

“I- I don't-” Vader stammers. “What..?”

 

He sits up, breathing rhythmically through his nose, taking cautious stock of himself. His body feels _wonderful_. So gloriously whole and alive, that he is afraid to trust his senses, afraid to believe in it. For one thing, he is clean. His hair has been combed and trimmed. The sweat and soot of Mustafar have been scrubbed away. The cuts and bruises he sustained during their abortive duel have been treated. This isn't the way he remembers it at all. He remembers pain, so much _pain_ -

 

“Where are we?” he swallows, thickly. “What is this? No riddles, old man. You say you control me. What are you talking about?”

 

“One question at a time,” Kenobi halts him with a gentle hand. “We are five kilometers below the surface of Coruscant. Beneath the remains of the Jedi Temple. As for _what_ this is...” he pauses, thoughtfully. “You are being imprisoned, indefinitely. I won't insult you by explaining why. It should be obvious.” His brow creases in a complex expression which is stern, but not entirely devoid of warmth. “I should say, you've been out of it for some time. With the Emperor dead, a transitional government was formed. Interim Chancellor Mothma appointed a special military tribunal, which reviewed your case, and made you a ward of the Jedi Order. You are now our legal prisoner, to keep as we see fit.”

 

“There is no Jedi Order!” Vader growls, to cover the sound of his heart, which is hammering in fear.

 

“We are not what we once were, to be sure. But Master Yoda and I are already tracking down the survivors-”

 

“You fools!” he cries, reaching for the vast, churning Darkness with the same unconscious smoothness that he reaches for his blade. “You think you can hold me here?!” But the Darkness doesn't respond. The roiling, raging power doesn't come. And that's when he finally notices the narrow, metal band encircling his throat. “How _dare_ you-?” he hisses, eyes wide with mixed horror and contempt.

 

“A necessary measure, I'm afraid.”

 

“ _How dare you-!?_ ” he lunges like a wild animal, only to find himself pinned to the bed under the Jedi master's power.

 

“Shh-” Kenobi hushes him, stroking his hair. “No need to get excited. It won't do you any good.” His touch is warm, _so warm-_ So blessedly sweet and bright. He is a liar by word and deed- But the smooth caress of his strong, warm hand feels for all the galaxy like the truth.

 

“I'm going to drink your blood, you traitorous cur,” Vader seethes, his entire body trembling as he struggles against the other's Force-grip. He is struggling, at the same time, against the overwhelming desire to lean into Kenobi's touch, to nuzzle the hand that pets him like a well-trained dog. He has no defense against this, no ability to quiet the demands of this treasonous body. He is entirely unaccustomed to the way this wild, youthful, warm-blooded animal feels, the way it _wants_.

 

“I don't think so,” says Kenobi. “This facility,” he gestures around the room, “was specifically designed to hold a Sith, on the off chance we ever managed to catch one alive.”

 

“What-?” Vader chokes. “Impossible. I have never heard of such a thing.”

 

“That's because it was built, years ago, in secret. The only ones who ever knew of its existence were the members of the Jedi Council, and the guild of engineers who we brought into our confidence. Many of the components were assembled by workmen who had no idea what they were building. Now,” he raises an eyebrow, “I'm sure you're curious about how it functions.”

 

“Oh yes,” Vader laughs. “I'm just dying to know how you think you're going to pull this off.”

 

“No doubt you are familiar with the technology involved in Force-suppressing containers. The Order has been using them to store Sith holocrons and other dangerous artifacts for quite some time.”

 

“You mean... The black boxes-?”

 

“Yes. This entire underground facility is one giant black box. The Force does not travel in or out. _Nothing_ travels in or out, except by means of a five-kilometer turbolift to the surface. A turbolift which is programmed to recognize your presence, and which cannot be operated with you inside of it. I do regret the necessity of the collar,” Kenobi winces in obvious distaste. “But it does act as an extra layer of precaution. It prevents you from using the Force even _within_ the confines of the box. Couldn't have you strangling me the moment you awoke here, now could I?” Something beeps softly, and he stands up, drawing a slim, silver comlink from within his robes and flicking it on. “Forgive me, I have to take this.” He looks back down at his captive, his gaze softening. “Listen, Anakin, I- I want you to know that the purpose of your confinement here is to protect others from the threat which you represent, not to make you suffer. I will return for you, soon, I promise. And when I do, I will... do the best I can to uphold my end of our agreement.”

 

“Ah, yes. I see what this is,” Vader scowls. “You and Master Yoda have made some sort of arrangement, to soothe your pious consciences. He must think this is somehow more just than killing me. He'll even send you down here, periodically, to feed the rancor, as it were.” He is leaning back on his elbows, trying hard to look indifferent- Instead, looking flushed, and needy, and close to tears. “Tell me something, _Master_ ,” he spits, bitterly. “Do you really believe your constant betrayals of me to be acts of love?”

 

“Love, Anakin?” Kenobi frowns, playfully. “Is that all you want?” He leans down to place a delightfully prickly, whiskered kiss upon the smooth, star-tanned cheek of the former Dark Lord. And as the Jedi master pulls away, and disappears through a door on the opposite side of the room, Darth Vader _aches_ , a fading mark, a teasing hint of everything he's ever longed for cooling on his skin. His eyes dart feverishly around the cozy, clean, white room. Instead of his monstrous, mechanical form, instead of the cruel, dark crucible in which it was forged- A nubile, sensuous body- A soft, white prison of tender tortures.

 

Yes, this is the part where he wakes to find himself in the care of his master.

 

He remembers this part, all too well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read plenty of fanfics in which Darth Vader keeps Obi Wan as a prisoner and/or love-slave. I wanted to explore a situation where it was the other way around. Sorry it took me until chapter four to reveal the actual premise, but if you've ever read one of my stories, you know that they start out weird, and only get weirder. 
> 
> Strap in, folks.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days pass, like three centuries.

 

On the first day, he wakes from his usual nightmares clammy with sweat. Again, the fact of his healthy, functional body immediately assaults his senses, almost as confounding and nauseating as it is exciting and pleasurable. He is momentarily sickened by the oily texture of his hair, the salty odor of his skin, the urgent need to urinate. He takes a deep breath, careful not to start hyperventilating again, and flings himself out of bed.

 

“Artoo?” he croaks. So startled is he by the sound of his own voice, that he glances around, half expecting to find someone else in the room. “What are you doing here?” he mouths, hugging himself in a most un-Sithly posture of trepidation.

 

“ _Master Kenobi has charged me with monitoring you_. _He is concerned that you might try to harm yourself_.”

 

“How touching,” Vader scowls. “He says he's 'concerned' about me? Did you ask him who his trying to fool?”

 

The blue and silver astromech lets out a shrill fart of contempt.

 

“ _Master Kenobi is only human_ ,” he whistles.“ _His feelings cloud his judgment. If you ask me, he is being far too lenient with you._ ”

 

“Oh?” Vader huffs, taken aback.

 

“ _You are honorless. A slayer of your own kind. There is nothing worse than what you've done._ ”

 

“What do you know of honor? You are a droid,” he says churlishly, narrowing his eyes, only to instantly regret his own meanness. As a tool of destiny, created to fulfill a purpose not his own, he has always felt a certain kinship with manufactured beings.

 

“ _I am a droid of honor! I have always done my duty. I don't have to listen to this Hutt-spit from the likes of you._ ” The astromech chirps and hisses in indignation, rotating his dome three hundred and sixty degrees before wheeling around and disappearing through the door.

 

Vader sighs to himself before moving to follow. This room (his bedroom, he realizes) is situated in the middle of a long, white hallway, floored with black rubber and lined with translucent pneumatic doors. Since Artoo is headed in one direction, he decides to go in the other, and is lucky enough to happen upon a fresher almost at once.

 

Peeling the sweaty sleep-clothes from his body and tossing them onto the floor, he steps inside, his presence activating the overhead lights. He pisses into the toilet with a grunt of relief, feeling faintly ridiculous. It's been so long since he's done this without a catheter. He doesn't remember if its normal for it to feel this good. Granted, _everything_ feels good now. Moving his muscles feels good. Relaxing them feels good. Breathing feels... _good is not the word._

 

He finishes pissing but, to his dismay, the stiffness in his groin does not abate. He doesn't remember how this is supposed to work. It seems to be getting worse the longer he stares at it.

 

Resolutely avoiding the floor-length mirror which dominates the wall behind him, he steps into the shower, clumsily elbowing the panel which flips it on. It's a real hydro unit, and a luxurious one at that, with handsome silver fittings and hematite tiles. He turns it up as hot as he can stand, and sinks to the floor, curled in a ball on his side, half hoping he'll drown in a centimeter of water. He lies there, luxuriating in his own misery, until his skin turns shriveled and pink. Not only does the stiffness fail to go away, but the hot water only exacerbates it, coaxing his body into a state of proper arousal. Eyes closed, cheek pressed against the tile, he whimpers quietly, wishing he still knew what to do with this feeling.

 

Wrapping an enormous, plush towel around himself, he numbly wanders the vacant, white halls of his prison. Every once in a while, he runs into Artoo, who rolls haughtily by him without comment. The complex is surprisingly large, about the area of three Coruscant city-blocks, and laid out in the shape of a dizzying hexagonal maze. Most of the rooms are empty, but some of them are stacked with metal crates, like the inside of a cargo hold, and a few are furnished with tables and sofas in the sparse, generic manner of a waiting room or office. A broad, main corridor bisects the hexagon, with his bedroom at its center, across from a forbidding pair of durasteel doors which, he realizes, block the only passage to the surface.

 

On the opposite side of his bedroom from the fresher is a small but very well-appointed kitchen. His stomach burns with hunger as he opens the refrigerator to find it stocked with food, but he feels strangely disinclined to eat. Looking down at himself, naked except for the towel, he is struck with a kind of irrational jealous resentment towards his body. It's beauty and strength appear almost _obscene_ , excessive, undeserved- And he is seized by the desire to punish it, to put it in its place. He palms feverishly at his groin, hissing at the sensation, closing his eyes against the memories of Kenobi- his nearness, his sweetness, the purifying agony of his kiss.

 

Perhaps, he thinks desperately, slamming the refrigerator door, the pain of hunger will distract him from this unbearable longing for _flesh_.

 

That evening, he collapses in bed, the distant sounds of Artoo's whistles and chirps echoing throughout the maze. He rubs himself raw, but the longing won't leave him. Dreams of Kenobi torture his sleeping mind, some of them so pleasant he never wants them to end.

 

 

 

 

 

On the second day, he wakes in a towering rage.

 

The slim band around his throat feels like a pair of choking hands. He throws the covers off his body and lunges to his feet, suddenly overflowing with energy. Still naked, he charges up and down the halls, entering rooms at random and tearing through their contents like a wild animal. He turns over crates of tea, and caf, and vitamins, and bacta pads, and soap, spilling their cargo all over the floor. He smashes chairs, and sofas, and end tables against the walls, until the hard wood splinters, slicing into his hands.

 

He throws back his head and screams from the pit of his belly, screams with all the might of his rejuvenated lungs. He screams himself hoarse, screams until his temples pound and his breath catches in his throat. He screams until black spots dance before his eyes. He screams until, at long last, hands fisted in his hair, he plunges to his knees, all the anger and hatred drained from his body like nectar from a withered fruit.

 

That night, Artoo is silent.

 

 

 

 

On the third day, he doesn't even bother to get out of bed.

 

He just pulls a pillow down over his face and prays for oblivion. Buried alive five kilometers below the surface of Coruscant, in this grave he has dug for himself, he bobs in and out of consciousness like a buoy on a sea of nightmares. Clawing uselessly at the collar around his neck, he longs for the Dark Side, his dagger and shield, his only friend, for almost twenty years. Without its mind-altering effects, he is unable to hide from himself, unable to deny the bitter truth of his own existence:

 

He has never amounted to anything more than wasted potential- ore for someone else's furnace, grist for someone else's mill- and in the end he couldn't even do that right.

 

Forced to contend with his own thoughts in the arena of silence, Anakin Skywalker lies quietly weeping for hours, and hours, and hours, and contemplates his squandered life.

 

* * *

 

How fickle public opinion is, thinks Obi Wan bitterly, as he slips through the temple gates, beyond the crowd of holo-reporters who seem to follow him everywhere now like a host of flies. Palpatine spent decades subtly preparing the galaxy to be turned against the Jedi- But now, with the Emperor dead and his treachery revealed, the erstwhile enemies of the state are martyred heroes, beloved by all. Every heart pities the decimated Jedi Order, every eye watches them, every voice chants their hallowed name. And with Master Yoda entrenched in meditation and refusing to make public appearances, it falls to Obi Wan himself to be the face of hope and spiritual renewal for trillions of beings.

 

And he is... well-suited to the role, it turns out. Stoic enough to inspire admiration, but vulnerable enough to evoke sympathy. Confident enough to hold the attention of crowds, but shy enough to be charming. Old enough to convey hard-earned wisdom, but young enough to still be holo-net handsome. _Exactly what the common people need to see in this trying time_ , he is told, by more than one solemnly nodding senator.

 

Bail Organa claps him on the shoulder and thanks him for his service. The Queen of Zeltros places a garland of flowers around his head to symbolize his religious purity. Speeches are made about him. Infants are named after him. Honors are heaped upon him by Mon Mothma's government.

 

“First in war, and first in peace,” she calls him on the floor of the senate, to thunderous applause.

 

In hushed tones, the senators talk about his traitorous former-padawan, locked in a dungeon deep bellow the temple like some hells-begotten beast. _Poor Kenobi,_ they say. _Lost his master, now his apprentice. And he bears it all with such fortitude._ Their eyes shine with a kind of amorphous, spiritualized awe as they shake his hand.

 

He doesn't tell anyone what happened on Naboo, other than that the Emperor is dead, but that doesn't stop the holo-net from spinning its own narrative. _The great Sith-killer_ , they say, _who long ago bested the apprentice, has finally vanquished the master, ridding the world of evil, once and for all. Of course, as befits the perfect Jedi, he is far too modest to admit it._

 

Master Yoda alone knows the truth: That it was Anakin who slew the serpent. Master Yoda alone witnessed him carrying young Skywalker's body through the desolated halls of the temple, limp and unconscious but, to the little green one's astonishment and alarm, not dead.

 

One by one, the padawans of dead masters return to Coruscant, realizing that he and Yoda truly live, that it isn't a trick to draw them out of hiding. Brave, noble, disciplined youths bow before him, weeping with gratitude, thanking him for saving their home, the only way of life they've ever known, begging to know how they can serve his cause. He smiles, and promises each and every one of them that he will personally cut their braid. He mentions gently, as if it were a secret just between the two of them, that he knows what it's like to lose your master before they can cut it.

 

 

 

The galaxy is healing. The Order is rebuilding. He should be happy. He _is_ happy...

 

But he wants more.

 

Three days pass in a dizzying montage of feasts and parades.

 

He does his duty. He testifies before the senate. He accepts invitations to dine with Bail Organa and his wife. He visits the Skywalker twins in the temple nursery. He tracks down Master Ti, and calls her back to Coruscant. He leads the orphaned padawans in meditation. He keeps the press away from Master Yoda, and waits for the ancient Jedi to emerge from his rooms.

 

And all the while, he plays the part of his younger, more naïve self, before an audience of strangers.

 

These people are from a different world. A world where so much of the horror never happened. They don't know what he's seen, and he can't possibly explain it to them. And so he just smiles benevolently at them with this charming fellow's lovely face- his _own_ face, feeling like a mask he can't take off- and goes quietly about his sacred work.

 

He's grateful, of course, that the galaxy has been spared a generation of tyranny and bloodshed. And yet, he can't help but feel somewhat... cheated. He still remembers his own suffering as acutely as ever, and a part of him wishes to see it memorialized in some way. But when he looks down at his hands, they are milk-smooth, the desert erased from his skin. His own body has forgotten his long exile. Ironically, the only one who remembers his pain is the one who caused it in the first place: That sleeping dragon, coiled beneath his feet.

 

It's not exactly that the adulation has started to go to his head- But it _has_ made him think. He has lived a life of piety, and chastity, and devotion, and sacrifice for as long as he can remember, without ever expecting anything in return. But now, with the hopes of trillions trained upon him, he has begun to wonder if maybe he should. Isn't he... a good man, as they say? Isn't he... _worthy_? Doesn't he deserve _something_ for all his tireless service? _Some_ kind of happiness?

 

He stands at the mirror in his modest little fresher, parting his saffron-colored hair, and tries to see in himself what the rest of the galaxy sees. Instead of a broken old man, instead of weakness, wretchedness, cowardice, and failure.... The image which greets him is one of courage, kindness, beauty, and strength.

 

“I accept the will of the Force,” he whispers, closing his eyes in prayer. “I understand that I have been sent back for a reason. I accept my duty, without complaint. But this time, I- I would make a small request...” Trembling, he addresses himself to the empty chambers, daring to give voice to that forbidden hunger which shakes his soul. “ _Please-_ ” he sobs, gripping the sides of the sink. “I need something to hold on to. I'll do what is required of me, I swear, I just need _something_ -”

 

For a brief eternity, the Jedi master stands in the dim vestibule of his narrow quarters, bowing his head to the Force of Life. And as the red vine of possessiveness who's seed he has kept smothered deep inside his belly for so many years begins to sprout, for the first time ever, he lets it- He lets it take root within him, unfurling its waxy leaves and putting forth intoxicating blossoms as it winds its way around his heart.

 

“Anakin,” he gasps, as the thorns of desire pierce his flesh for the very first time. “Let me keep him. Let him be mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to bore you with Anakin and Obi Wan's respective self-esteem issues. 
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will have more making-out.


	6. Chapter 6

On the fourth day, Darth Vader wakes to find a hand hovering centimeters from his face, trembling minutely as if debating whether or not to touch him.

 

“Good morning, Anakin.”

 

The hand finally makes up its mind, settling in his tangled hair. It moves slowly, ruminantly, its thumb sweeping behind his ear as it pets him, its blunt nails pleasantly scraping his scalp. He tries to hang on to this feeling, to record it for future reference. It seems too wondrous to be real, this soothing voice, this petting hand. He feels unmade, unborn, caterwaulingly new. His mind is foggy as he struggles to remember where he is. A pair of laughing silver eyes look down on him. The bile in his mouth tastes like sadness, and the burning in his throat proves he's been crying all night.

 

“Kenobi?” he rasps.

 

“Let's get you dressed.”

 

“What- What are you _doing_ here?” he half-mumbles, half-sobs, his naked body catching in the blankets as he tries to roll away.

 

“I said I would come back for you,” says the Jedi simply. “Did you not believe me?”

 

“ _Traitor_ ,” Vader spits. “Why should I believe anything you say?” He scrambles backwards across the bed into a sitting position, his salty, reddened face scrunching with sullen ire.

 

“Twas _you_ , Anakin,” Kenobi sighs, seating himself on the edge of the mattress, “who betrayed _me_. You promised yourself to me, and you broke that promise, in the most egregious manner imaginable. You forsook my teachings. You gave yourself to another master-” He looks up from his lap, eyes flashing with something that isn't quite anger. “All my efforts, all my worries, all my hopes, wasted on you. _My life_ , wasted on you.” He cants his head, his voice eerily level and calm. “Have you ever given even a moment of thought to how that made me feel?”

 

“No,” Vader blurts, too startled to be anything other than entirely truthful. “That is, I-”

 

“I know,” Kenobi smiles. “You watched me grieve for Qui Gon. You watched me endure years of war. You didn't think of me as someone who could be... _destroyed_ by loss.” He reaches out to softly brush Vader's upper arm with his knuckles. “Neither did I.”

 

“You can't hold me here.”

 

“Oh no?” he laughs. “No doubt you _are_ clever enough to escape.”

 

“You know that I am.”

 

“And powerful enough to make me pay, once you do.”

 

“What are you getting at?” Vader snaps. “No riddles. I won't be held here, and I won't be toyed with, old man!”

 

Kenobi leans forward, eyes crinkling with some strange admixture of triumph and sadness, and speaks in a voice kind but firm: “And after you escape- Then what? Where will you go? What will you do?”

 

“I don't have to-”

 

“Exactly,” he smiles. “You haven't thought it through.” He clucks in mock-admonishment. “Still so reckless, Padawan. If you kill me, and break out of here... Who will love you then?”

 

Vader flinches away as though struck. “ _No-_ ” he growls, shaking his head in frantic denial, his itchy eyes threatening more tears. “That was not-! You only said that to _trick me_ \- You could never actually-”

 

“But I do,” Kenobi pronounces, in a nearly sacred hush. “I don't know what it says about me, honestly, that I can still love you after all you've done. But I do. I-” he makes a short, hysterical noise which isn't quite a laugh. “I can't _stop_ ,” he gasps, reaching back into the Sith's golden hair, as if helplessly drawn to stroke it. “You'll see...” He runs his fingers down the side of Vader's neck, fondling the cruel silver band which cuts him off from the Force. “You will soon find it is not this device which keeps you here,” he breathes. “You will stay, because I will make you stay. I will make you _want_ to stay...” He suddenly pulls the younger man against him and mashes his lips in a decidedly awkward and hesitant kiss, as if warring in his own person, overcome with passion and constrained by inhibition at the very same time.

 

“ _Please-_ ” Vader whimpers, falling against him, still shamelessly naked. “ _Please, more_ -” He is a bit disgusted with himself, but he can hardly be surprised- He knows himself to be weak. Even this abortive, amateurish attempt at a kiss is enough to render his body boneless with desire. He can smell Kenobi now, all soap, and cedar, and _flesh-_ If there was ever a point when he was too proud to beg, he is well past it now. “If you love me, you will give me what I ask you for,” he whines.

 

The Jedi master leaps to his feet, looking breathless and rattled, but determined to stay in control of the situation nonetheless. “Stand up, Anakin,” he says, as if addressing a child, in a strange echo of his long-ago sternness. His silver eyes look green above his flushed, excited cheeks.

 

“I don't-”

 

“This _is_ what you wanted, after all, isn't it Padawan? For me to 'command' you?” He frowns and crosses his arms, but playfully, indulgently, as if inviting the Sith to join him in this odd pantomime their old relationship. Inviting him to pretend that he is guilty of nothing more than youthful defiance. “And so it shall be. I will command you, and you will obey.”

 

 _But why?_ Vader wonders. _Why this game?_

 

 _Because it will be mutually pleasurable,_ a part of his mind supplies.

 

 _Because he still loves you,_ another part is whispering, giddy with desperate hope.

 

He stands, becoming for the first time aware of his nakedness. He looks down at the mismatched hands which are clenching and unclenching at his sides, one crudely wrought from some brassy alloy, the other finely wrought from flesh. He lifts his chin to meet Kenobi's gaze and is startled to find it filled, not with censure, but with longing.

 

“As I was saying,” the Jedi averts his eyes, struggling to sound authoritative through a maidenly blush. “We ought to get you dressed.”

 

“I'm fine like this,” Vader shrugs, glancing down at his stale sleep-clothes which lie in a ball on the floor. “If it's all the same to you, that is... _Master_ ,” he simpers.

 

“Actually, I... brought you something to wear,” Kenobi says, brightening. He turns to a dark bureau along the wall behind him, producing a handsome brown box. “I think it will look... nice on you. Of course, I'm no expert in such things, but-”

 

“Are you... giving me a _gift_?” Vader snorts. “I thought the Jedi condemned 'material possessions.'”

 

“Ah, yes. But you are no longer a Jedi,” Kenobi hums dangerously, grabbing his captive by the wrist and reeling him in. He presses a short, frantic, hungry kiss to Vader's mouth, and then another to the side of his face. “You will receive as many gifts from me as I see fit to give. Now, Anakin- I command you to be still... as I dress you...” he breathes against his neck, reaching both arms around him to flip open the lid of the box and withdraw a length of material.

 

“I-I don't-” Vader stammers helplessly as Kenobi fills his senses- _Oh_ , those laughing eyes, that warm, clean scent- Strong arms turn him about, pulling a pale-blue tunic over his head, guiding his feet through the ends of matching pale-blue leggings. The fabric is of a high-quality plant fiber, durable and soft. Hands caress his back and shoulders through it, rubbing the finely textured weave against his skin, and he groans in ecstasy. They are the same hands, he realizes, which ruined him to begin with, which took away his ability to feel like this- And now they are giving it all back. Their questing touches ask him to surrender himself- To believe that all can be washed clean and made new, that all can be forgiven- And merciful gods, he _wants_ to-! And for the first time, maybe he _can_. Stars burst before his vision. Pleasure lances through him, so intense it nearly knocks him unconscious. Lips brush the nape of his neck, the inside of his wrist, whiskers tease him, and it's- Bliss, unmoored. _Unreal_. Somehow both _too much_ , and _not enough._

 

“ _Please_ -” he keens. The hands wrap around his belly, pulling him back against a solid, thickly-robed figure, and squeezing him tight.

 

“There.” Kenobi murmurs, nuzzling his bearded chin against Vader's shoulder from behind. “I knew you would be... beautiful.”

 

The former-Sith blinks in confusion before realizing he is looking at the inside of the bureau door, upon which is fixed a mirror. He feels a bitter wash of dysmorphia- for surely this image can't be _him_ \- but Kenobi's embrace feels so physical, so real, that he finds he can use it to steady himself.

 

The young man in the mirror is dressed in shimmering, sky-blue silk, with curling, bright-blue embroidery below his neck and above his wrists. A bright-blue sash girds his waist, while matching cobalt slippers adorn his feet. His wavy, dark-gold hair is gathered to one side, just brushing one of his shoulders.

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“I-” he struggles. “Yes. Thank you.”

 

“I'm so glad,” Kenobi sighs, squeezing his captive harder and sweeter. “You know Anakin, you were right about one thing after all.”

 

“And what's that?” Vader swallows anxiously. He can feel the Jedi's excited pulse hammering against his back. And his breath shortens with the knowledge that he is truly helpless- For these warm arms restrain him as no prison ever could.

 

“I find that I _do_ like it, when you call me 'Master.' It _does_ give me pleasure, as you said. And so...” He grasps Vader by the shoulders, spinning him around so that they are face to face. “I would have you address me as such, Padawan.”

 

“As I recall-” says Vader, his legs threatening to give way beneath him as those silver-green eyes press him into the ground, “that was _not_ a part of our deal.”

 

Kenobi grins, all blushing, maidenly desire and deadly, warrior's strength, and brings their lips together in a blinding star-burst of sacred, cleansing heat. Withdrawing by centimeters, he takes a breath, and whispers into Vader's quivering mouth:

 

“I am altering the deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Force, someone stop me before it's too late.


	7. Chapter 7

Obi Wan sets a white paper box down on the white laminate counter top and lifts the lid back so that Anakin can view its contents: a dozen palm-sized buns filled with orange marmalade in a bed of sheer wrapping tissue.

 

“I remember,” he ventures, “you used to love these when you were a boy.”

 

It's a bit late for breakfast as they face each other in the narrow, spotless kitchen- Down here, in the glare of this well-lit sepulcher, time is stretched like taffy until it loses all meaning- But up on the surface it's a little before midday.

 

“I'm not hungry,” Anakin huffs, perched on a white fiberglass bar stool, hands twisting in his lap beneath the sleeves of his blue tunic. All rangy and hunched-over, he looks both ready to run at the slightest provocation and resigned to the fact that there's nowhere to go. Sweat makes his hair coil like golden filigree above his scrunching eyelids, purpled and swollen as figs.

 

“Don't lie to me, Padawan,” the Jedi frowns, turning away to fiddle with the tea machine on the adjacent counter. “It's unbecoming, and gains you nothing. Artoo says you haven't eaten since you got here.”

 

“I don't appreciate being spied on-”

 

“You are being imprisoned for mass murder and high treason,” he says, without looking up, as he sifts a heaping spoonful of dry tea into the hatch. “Your privacy is more or less forfeit.” He can hear the detached amusement in his own voice as he casually mentions the young Darth Vader's terrible crimes. He knows he should be more disturbed by them, but they seem so long ago and far away... And that old affection, that hardy, bijou little seed, has survived the long winter of his exile, despite his best efforts to kill it. “Besides: It's hardly spying if you know about it. _Someone_ has to look after you while I'm away. Would you prefer Threepio?”

 

“Now, now:” Anakin quips, “there's no need to make threats.”

 

Obi Wan laughs.

 

And then they are smiling at each other, and it's- _oh, Stars_ \- and Obi Wan is handing his captive a hot chrome cup of ginger tea across the counter, and their fingertips are brushing, and it's- _everything he's ever longed_ \- it's-

 

“Eat,” he says, recovering himself. “That's an order.” He takes a step back, tamping down the burst of giddy tingles in his chest. His mind keeps skirting the edges of this half-formed plan (operation: make Anakin _mine_ ) only thinking the thoughts in an elliptical, sidelong way as if that makes them any less sinful.

 

The former-Sith surprises him, shrugging and taking a bun from the box without further ado. But then, he reflects with a pang of sorrow, this isn't his petulant young charge anymore. Two decades under the Emperor's thumb could not fail to teach Darth Vader how to pick his battles.

 

Anakin sinks his teeth into the savory dough, chewing and swallowing with a kind of soft, involuntary groan as the sparkling tang of marmalade strikes his senses- His eyes widen as he suddenly realizes he is _starving_. He practically inhales the little loaf and then another, wincing as he washes them down with a spicy swig of ginger tea. “Oh gods,” he grips the chrome cup with both hands and peers down into its steaming contents, plainly shaken. “Is this _really_ what it was like?”

 

“What _what_ was like?”

 

“All of it!” he cries, suddenly hysterical. “Everything!” He sets the cup down on the counter, hands shaking uncontrollably. “I forgot-” he stammers, scrunching his eyes shut, “that- eating was- pleasurable.”

 

“How?” asks Obi Wan, swaying unconsciously closer. “That doesn't make any sense.”

 

“ _He_ helped me to forget- many things- So that I wouldn't miss them-” Anakin is blinking rapidly, a haunted look in his eyes, a hammering pulse at his throat. “ _He said it was_ \- _to help me_ -” he chokes out. “But now- _I don't think it was to help me at all_ -”

 

At this, Obi Wan can only gawk and marvel. Can it really be that, at this late date, _Darth Vader_ still has enough innocence left in him to feel freshly betrayed?

 

“Oh _Padawan_ ,” he laughs miserably. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

Pouring his own cup of tea, the Jedi lowers himself onto the other bar stool so that they are face-to-face across the counter and starts nibbling daintily at a bun. He can feel a headache coming on, a side-effect of being inside the black box. While Anakin's collar cuts him off from the Force entirely, the black box merely filters out the rest of the world, creating a kind of nauseating Force-purgatory. Obi Wan can still feel the energy field moving through his body, can still use his powers within these walls, but he can't pick out the specific signature of any other mind beyond them. Though he knows it isn't actually true, his Force-sense is constantly telling him he's the only sentient being in existence. He sighs, knowing as his head throbs and his heart shudders, that this gnawing loneliness is not exactly doing wonders for his judgement.

 

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” Anakin snaps. “What's all this for?” he rasps angrily, gesturing at his new clothes, at the marmalade buns. “Why are you even here?”

 

“I thought we'd just spend the day together,” says Obi Wan mildly, sipping his tea. “Perhaps... getting to know one another. _Again_ , that is.”

 

“And meanwhile, you want me to call you 'Master'?”

 

“I'd- _like_ it,” he swallows, his cheeks warming shyly. “I can't exactly force you-”

 

“It's not enough that I'm your prisoner?!” Anakin cuts him off, eyes shining with pain, body quivering with rage. “I must also be your _pet_? Are there no lengths to which you will not go in order to humiliate me?!” He scrubs at his burning face, unable to contain more tears. “You are clever and cruel, Jedi. I know you sense my weakness- But haven't you-” he gasps, “ _any mercy at all-?_ "

 

Obi Wan's heart freezes. He lowers his cup.

 

“That's not-” he breathes. “Anakin, I'm not trying to hurt you! I was merely offering you- I thought you might _want_ -”

 

“What?!”

 

“Comfort and... _pleasure_ , you said.” He looks away bashfully, skimming his fingertips over the cool laminate. “You are being held down here for good reason. But that doesn't mean you have to be... lonely.”

 

“You mean, as long as I'm stuck here, I might as well-”

 

“You don't have to make it sound so... vulgar,” he frowns, looking rather put-out. “It's not a transaction.”

 

“Your affections, in exchange for my obedience?” Anakin scoffs. “What is that, if not a transaction?”

 

“A... _relationship_.”

 

“What-?!” He looks up incredulously, but Obi Wan can almost see his mind frantically working behind those glassy, reddened eyes. He is- wildly, desperately- considering it. He wants to believe in the possibility of such a thing- He wants to be convinced, _compelled_ even- but he is so profoundly hurt, and so afraid. “What are you saying-?” he asks, sounding impossibly timid. “What- What would it be like?”

 

The Jedi leans forward avidly, capturing his hands. “I don't know,” he says softly. “But I want to find out.” He lowers his head, stroking his lips against Anakin's knuckles. The latter gasps and keens, causing Obi Wan's belly to seize with desire. “I have changed,” he says. “I am able to offer you things now... that I never could before.” He doesn't remember any of the techniques he once used to control this. It's just been so long since they were necessary, since he's felt any... _stirrings_ of this kind. The desert bleached those amorous humors out of him, left him brittle and dry. To be back in this lush, blooming body again- It's almost more than he can stand!

 

“But- what about your _Code_ -?” asks Anakin in a wounded half-whisper.

 

“That's... a bit complicated,” Obi Wan concedes. “There is no denying that the Jedi have failed. Master Yoda and I agree that... much of our doctrine must be reconsidered. But I'm not certain-” his shoulders sink, “what I believe in anymore.”

 

“Then we have that in common,” Anakin smiles tearfully, “old friend.”

 

* * *

 

 

They spend the day together, which largely consists of cleaning up Vader's mess.

 

At the end of the hallway, across from the kitchen, is a garbage incinerator, into which piles of broken furniture must be deposited. Hunks of plasteel, balled up flimsiplast, and shattered glass litter the floors, along with wasted food and medical supplies. Kenobi refuses to use his telekinesis to accomplish any of this, insisting vaguely that it will be good for them to do it manually. He too, Vader suspects, takes pleasure in exerting the strength of his vigorous new body, for which the former-Sith can hardly fault him.

 

They break for supper, a simple meal of fried rice and vegetables which Kenobi prepares out of whatever is in the refrigerator. As they eat, he explains how to use the computer terminal in the hallway to order food and supplies from the surface. The five-kilometer turbolift, he says, is actually a large freight elevator with airlock-doors. It will let him through the first set to retrieve things he has ordered, but it will shut down if Vader attempts to open the second set. He can requisition whatever he wants, within reason, and a courier droid will purchase it somewhere on Coruscant and deliver it to him within three working days.

 

Vader listens quietly, feeling dissociated and dazed. He remembers the smell of rotting flesh. He remembers the insides of star destroyers. He remembers footsteps, order and chaos, marching and fleeing, the sounds of screams. He remembers the taste of bacta. He remembers pain, and prickling, and numbness, and burning. Always burning, burning for all time.

 

He cannot fathom that this is his existence now: peace and quite, beautiful clothes and marmalade buns, a real water shower, a warm, soft bed. And all this tender, shivering skin!

 

 _Not so bad_ , a part of his mind is humming. _Not so bad at all. There could be kisses and sighs for you. All you have to do is submit._

 

It's not a transaction, the Jedi says.

 

 _But it is_ , Vader thinks, _if I'm willing to pay the price._

 

In the evening, Kenobi leads him into the bedroom, looking nervous and pent. He sits down on the bed, apparently to stop himself from pacing. “Well, then?” he looks up hopefully, clasping his hands in his lap. He seems excited, happy, desperate, scared. His silver eyes are covetous and hungry, but not with a young man's sharp lust. His desire is blunted, hammered down by the years. His eyes are those of the lonely old recluse- a dry, quiet creature of weathered skin and star-bleached bones, weary and starving.

 

Vader blinks.

 

“I shall return later,” says Kenobi apologetically. “I'm sure you need more time to decide.”

 

“To decide?” Vader blurts, perfectly baffled. “You want my... _permission_? For you to... _own me_? Does that not defeat the purpose?”

 

“Force, no-! Not to _own_ you... I would... _cherish_ you. I want- I want you to be-” Kenobi grimaces, as if the words are fish-barbs catching in his throat, “ _mine_ -” The speaking of this forbidden syllable seems to shake him like an incantation. His eyes snap open, and like a froth of ale, his soul comes pouring out. “I want you to be mine!” he repeats, this time with more conviction. “I am sure it is wrong for me to feel this, this perverse need to... _possess_ you, but Force-forgive me, I- I cannot help it. I'm too old for this, this fighting. I fought it so hard, for so long and it- It's all back now, anyway. Being near you again- It's all come back.”

 

 _Oh_ , thinks Vader, swaying on his feet. It's a struggle to breathe as suddenly the air feels thick as honey. _It is love after all. It was love all along._

 

“Obi Wan-?” He takes a staggering step forward.

 

Kenobi breathes in through his nose sharply, working his jaw, and then looks back up as though coming to a decision about something. “Listen, before all this- When we met aboard that battle station- I had come prepared to die.”

 

“You _wanted_ me to kill you?”

 

“It was merely... the end of my mission. I had done my duty. I was ready for it to be over.” He drags both hands through his hair in anguish. His voice is soft, so achingly soft, as it begins to tremble. “I was promised peace. I thought it would finally be over. I wasn't prepared for there to be more... _even more_... required of me.”

 

Vader looms nearer, until they are centimeters apart. He imagines he can feel the heat rising from the Jedi's flesh. He is desperate to touch, but afraid to move.

 

“I can do it,” says Kenobi gravely, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I can assume this new duty. But I cannot fight my feelings for you at the same time. I cannot do both. Not again. I'm just... not strong enough anymore.”

 

“Master-” says Vader, trembling hands poised above Kenobi's thighs. “ _Please-_ ”

 

“To hear you call me that again,” Kenobi gasps. “I can't explain what it does to me- The way it makes me _feel_ -” He seizes Vader about the waist, pulling the younger man into his lap- And the very next instant they are kissing, and it's _oh_ \- Vader wraps his thighs around Kenobi's hips, his arms around Kenobi's neck, and it's _so good it's sogoodsogoodohstars_ -

 

He remembers kneeling as the Emperor tore through his mind with long, shadowy fingers, trying to make him forget. In this way, he forgot the peace of sleep, the smell of grass, the warmth of star-light, but his memory never seemed willing to fully relinquish the sweetness of kisses. Their ghosts remained, scattered across his ruined face and throat, torturing him endlessly.

 

“You were _mine_ ,” Kenobi breathes. “The Sith stole you away- But you were supposed to be mine- _Qui Gon gave you to_ me-” he whispers. “I-I know how that sounds. I know I sound mad,” he shakes his head. “But still, I long for you to call me-”

 

“ _Master-_ ” Vader groans, seizing his hair.

 

“ _Yes-_ ” he shudders helplessly. “It's not to hurt you, not at all. It's not to humiliate you, I promise.” Tears are pouring down the Jedi's face as he confesses his innermost feelings: “When you call me that it... It makes me feel as though I haven't failed you. As though... you could still trust in me, and I could still protect you. There is nothing else in this world that makes me feel so good-”

 

Vader tilts his head down, pressing their foreheads together, his short breath puffing against Kenobi's lips. “I need- to feel you, Master-” he gulps, reaching for the silver band around his throat. “Your body is- _wonderful_ \- to touch- But it's not enough. I need your soul.” He rubs their chests together, mewling and kissing.

 

“Anakin-” Kenobi freezes. “I want our bond back more than anything. But I'm not sure removing that collar is the best idea.”

 

“You don't trust me?”

 

“Frankly, no.” He raises an eyebrow, recovering some small measure of his usual wryness. “Should I, my dear Padawan?”

 

“Yes,” Vader pronounces soberly. “You have nothing to fear from me, my Master. I obey you. I am yours.” He asks himself, _Is this a ruse?_ He doesn't quite know what he's doing or whether he means what he's saying. His mind hasn't yet caught up with his heart. He crushes their open mouths together, sweeping his tongue over Kenobi's palate. The Jedi moans plaintively, his self-possession evidently wearing quite thin after all. Vader knows he ought to take advantage of this somehow, but the feeling of Kenobi's hands around his waist, of broad thumbs stroking his ribs, is seriously inhibiting his ability to plot revenge.

 

“S-say it again,” Kenobi falters, lips moving soundlessly as though in prayer. “Say you are _mine_.”

 

“I am yours,” Vader whispers heatedly. “I am yours, I am yours,” he repeats, closing his eyes and tossing his hair.

 

Kenobi's fingers catch about the silver band, anxiously pattering Vader's neck like rain. “I don't know,” he says, “what might happen to us if I remove it. We'll still be inside the black box. We won't be able to sense anyone beyond these walls through the Force at all. Only each other. It will be as if no one else in the universe exists. I don't know what that would feel like exactly, but it could be... extremely intense.” Kenobi swallows. “We ought to think about this. We ought to take... precautions.” But even as he is saying these words, his fingers are closing around the band.

 

Vader's heart is pounding. Any moment now, he might be free of this wretched device. He is ready to say or do whatever it takes to make the Jedi remove it. “ _Master, please_ -” he gasps. “Release me from this torture! I _need_ to feel our bond!”

 

“I- want that too...” Kenobi shudders. “My Padawan, my _beloved_ \- I have never wanted anything so much.” His handsome hands with their neat nails and rosy knuckles hover in the air between them like a pair of indecisive doves.

 

 _In a moment,_ a part of Vader's mind is saying, _you will have your powers back._ _And it will be so easy to wring his neck._

 

He holds his breath as the Jedi- _weakling, fool_ \- reaches around his shoulders for the Force-sealed clasp. In a moment, the Darkness will come rushing back into him like a blizzard through a door unhinged. In a moment, he will be the most powerful being in the galaxy, and no one will be able to stop him.

 

But then, the silver band falls clattering to the floor, and all plans of escape are immediately driven from his mind.

 

His chest heaves and his head rushes as the Force comes flooding back into his body, the Dark Side and the Light- For both of them are screaming the very same thing at him in unison:

 

_Obi Wan Kenobi is the only other sentient being in the universe._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme just get a little more Obikin out of my system before we all jump on the Kylo Ren bandwagon. 
> 
> My review of Episode VII:
> 
> A virtuosic pastiche tone-poem which either definitively proves that Hollywood is out of ideas, or paves the way for a truly game-changing Episode VIII. In other words, J.J. Abrams is still a hack-fraud, but he might be some kind of a hack-fraud genius.


	8. Chapter 8

As soon as he removes the device, two things happen in quick succession:

 

Their bond flares to life, and Obi Wan's weary old heart shudders to a joyful halt within his youthful chest. His Force-sense seems to relent from constantly straining against the walls of the black box, instinctively rushing up to meet this new, this other, this fellow sentient mind. His muscles slacken in relief as his awareness is filled with the dark and turbulent, yet utterly unmistakable, Force-presence of his beloved.

 

The very next instant, he is being thrown back and pinned to the bed by a powerful telekinetic push and the tall, strapping body of Anakin Skywalker is climbing on top of him, clumsily kneeing him in the gut.

 

“Hold on to me-!” this wild animal that looks like Anakin is saying.

 

“Wha-?”

 

“Please, oh merciful gods, please-” he is gibbering. He seizes Obi Wan by the wrists, his mechanical hand gripping one of them hard enough to bruise. “ _Hn- hnk- hah-_ ” His shoulders heave, driving them both down into the mattress with a series of pitiful, soft, wounded cries. “ _H-hold on to me_ ,” he begs, sounding more forlorn and less vicious this time, feebly attempting to wrap Obi Wan's arms around himself like a safety belt.

 

Obi Wan takes a calming breath. “Let go of my wrists, Anakin.”

 

“I can't- please don't make me- _please don't make me-_ ”

 

“I cannot hold on to you unless you free my wrists,” he says carefully. With deft mental fingers, he tests the edges of their bond, hoping to learn what is the matter without further provoking his suddenly distraught companion.

 

“But if I let you go,” grates Anakin, in a low, demented rasp, “you might leave me.”

 

“I won't leave you, I promise. Now, tell me: what's wrong? Why are you so afraid?”

 

He glances frantically around the stainless white room, his eyes huge and clouded with terror. “The Force-” he moans. “It's... _empty_.”

 

“Oh, dear.” Obi Wan frowns contritely. “I was not thinking. I should have done more to prepare you for this.”

 

“ _Empty! Do you hear me?!_ ” Anakin is screaming, head bowed so that their faces are mere centimeters apart. “All the life in the universe, _gone_ \- Do you understand?!” He violently shakes Obi Wan's forearms, a bright macule of blood appearing beneath his mechanical thumb as the mounting pressure of his durasteel fingers finally ruptures the skin.

 

“ _Ahhh-_ Listen to me!” the Jedi cries, features shriveling in pain. “It's only the black box! It's only an illusion!”

 

Anakin releases his death-grip, recoiling in horror. “I've hurt you-” he sobs, alarmingly child-like in his distress. “You are _alive-_ You are the _only one_ \- I mustn't hurt- The only one, the only other-” He looks down at his mechanical appendage in anguish and revulsion, his entire frame trembling. “ _Hold on to me!_ ” he wails. His pupils are dilated, his eyes opaque as though lost in a trance. “ _I am falling, falling forever through the emptiness! Only you can catch me- You are the only one!_ ”

 

Obi Wan counts his exhalations, struggling to center himself in the Force. His attachment- his _weakness_ \- has driven him to do something incredibly foolish, and now he is roughly pinned beneath a creature powerful enough to kill him with an errant thought. A creature, it occurs to him, who on top of everything else is also delirious with terror and beyond the reach of reason. Weighing his chances, he opts for the direct approach: Ignoring the pain in his wounded wrist, he wraps his arms around the dark one's tapering waist and pulls this being's firm abdomen against his own. “I've got you-” he heaves, squeezing as hard as he possibly can as if he expects his embrace to be fought off. “Don't be afraid.”

 

Instead, the creature which may or may not still be Anakin Skywalker coils itself around his body like a huge, constricting snake, encircling his shoulders and wrapping long, powerful legs around his hips until he can scarcely move a centimeter in any direction.

 

“Don't let go- Don't leave me-”

 

“I won't leave you-”

 

“If you let me go,” he gnars through gritted teeth, pressing his face to the side of Obi Wan's neck, “I'll destroy you. I'll destroy us _both_.” Fear is rolling off of him in toxic, yellow waves. His heart is pounding out that old, primeval rhythm- that bestial dread of abandonment- to which his entire life has been one continual, frantic march.

 

Obi Wan swallows his dismay at this, leaning experimentally into their bond, only to find himself tumbling headlong into the gaping sarlacc pit of loneliness that is Darth Vader's mind. The desperation is infectious- Before he can make another sound, the dark one's mouth is on his and they are twisting together amid the rumpled sheets. He moans, feeling Anakin alternately squeezing his ribs and clawing at his back as though trying to somehow climb inside of him. He can feel all the hopes and fears of a lifetime pouring into him across their bond.

 

And it's... _intoxicating_ , feeling so trusted, so needed. The aloof, warrior's life he has lived has always been at odds with his essentially warm and nurturing disposition. He has spent years denying himself the only thing he's ever wanted, thoroughly convinced of the necessity of his sacrifice. But now, oh now. He has given in- And there has been no collapsing of land, no parting of water, no crackle of lightning to smite him. The galaxy still turns above their heads, as indifferent to his apostasy as it ever was to his piety.

 

_You could have had this all along._

 

The sheer unfairness of it shakes him. He cannot stop a thrill of jealous resentment from slipping in among his thoughts like a swift, hot dagger between the ribs. Padmé always had her work and, if she had lived, she would have had her children.

 

_But Anakin was your work- He was your child._

 

He is finally self-aware enough to admit this, if only in the cool, silent chamber of his own mind.

 

“Listen to me:” Obi Wan reaches up to seize a fistful of sweaty, brazen curls at the base of Anakin's skull and yanks them, forcing the writhing dragon to meet his eye. “The universe is filled with life.”

 

“What?!” Anakin demands, in a parched, excoriated voice. “W-what are you saying?”

 

“The black box- It separates us from the outside. What you are sensing now- It isn't real. I'm sorry. I forgot how... intense it could be at first. I should have warned you,” Obi Wan murmurs, scratching soothingly at Anakin's scalp. “I promise you: There is still a whole world up there, beyond these walls. And it's not what you remember. It's a different world, a better world-”

 

“But?” Anakin whispers, his eyes clearing, the madness passing. He licks his chapped lips, sensing Obi Wan's true thoughts.

 

“But... it is not _our_ world,” Obi Wan says softly. “I am... grateful, of course, that we were accorded this chance to return. To end the horror before it began. But now that we've fulfilled our purpose...” He gazes wistfully up at the featureless white ceiling, that familiar, single crease bisecting his brow. “I am so tired, dear one,” he sighs. “I feel like a ghost among those people. There is no place for me up there, with them.”

 

“But down here, this could be-” Anakin chatters, gaze lifting in wonder.

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“Oh-” he exclaims, a joyful flush suffusing him. “ _That's_ what you meant. You were offering me-” He slides his hands below Obi Wan's head and they stare, awestruck, into each others' eyes in mutual realization. There are, at long last, no barriers to this. They can simply choose...

 

“Our _own_ world, yes- I didn't even think- But, now that you say it that way-”

 

“I didn't say it!” Anakin laughs, a pure, sparkling, vaporous sound. “ _You_ said it!” He beams dizzily, stroking their noses against each other.

 

Obi Wan closes his eyes in rapture as he is buried beneath a hail of kisses. “ _Yes..._ ” he breathes.

 

“ _Master-_ ” Anakin mouths, the flat of his cheek pressed reverently against the fluttering in Obi Wan's chest. “I once dreamed of this. Of being truly yours _-_ ” he swoons, golden lashes beating against Obi Wan's breastbone like a pair of sunlit hummingbird's wings. “But I never thought it could happen, I never even dared to hope that you could... No-!” He pulls away suddenly, eyes blazing, and speaks in a voice emphatic and dire: “I won't be toyed with, Jedi! Show me that you truly want this. Prove to me that this is real.”

 

And Obi Wan does something that, in all their years together as master and apprentice, he would have considered impossible. He contemplates the solid, crystalline walls that surround his heart, the highest evidence of his ascetic mastery, the achievement of a lifetime of meditative practice...

 

...and let's them fall away like ice sheets, riven from a glacier, into a warming sea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At what point does this fanfic become fanfic of my other fanfics? 
> 
> But seriously, do y'all ever read a story that's not set in the Star Wars universe and forget that the characters _aren't_ telepathic and can't rub up against each others' feelings? Because that happens to me all the time.


	9. Chapter 9

Darth Vader instantly realizes two things at once:

 

First, that joy beyond all description exists in the world.

 

And second, that he might have spent the past twenty years quite differently if he had known about it.

 

 

 

Kenobi's heart is a placid, beautiful, warm-water tarn, surrounded by impassable frozen forests through which he and he alone, for the first time ever, has been allowed to enter. The knotted, silver trees part for him, the high, pale grasses sway about his knees, and he steps out into a mellow, flowering glade. As he looks to the sky, a shaft of halcyon starlight strikes him and he weeps with the knowledge that this is the Jedi's soul touching him, offering him the kind of deep companionship he has only ever dreamed about, and then only in his previous life.

 

What Vader finds in this communion devastates him: Kenobi is not, he realizes, the cruel zealot, the self-righteous martyr with which Sidious filled his memories. He is not perversely eager to destroy himself. He is not deluded about the harshness of the galaxy or the impotence of the Order. He does not hold to his faith, after all he has suffered, because he is naïve, or callous, or weak. He has survived, he has persisted, he has remained a Jedi all this time, because he is simply good. Good to the core.

 

Back in the physical plane, Vader opens his eyes to find himself pressed against Kenobi's firm torso, his arms wrapped around Kenobi's elegant waist, nose buried in his neatly-parted cinnamon hair. He doesn't remember removing his tunic, or seeing Kenobi doff his robes, yet somehow both of them have ended up bare-chested. He doesn't have much time to dwell on it as they yield to the irresistible magnetism of each others' naked flesh. He can hear them both moaning helplessly in these clear, melodic, youthful voices that can't possibly belong to them, hungrily caressing sculpted backs and shoulders that can't possibly belong to them, entwining long, muscular, graceful legs that can't possibly belong to them...

 

“ _Oh- Oh-_ Bi Wan-” he gasps, feeling as though he ought to say something, but finding himself at quite the loss for words.

 

“It's alright, it's alright,” Kenobi chants, frantically petting his hair. “I've got you. At last- _at last_ , I've got you-” He kisses the crown of Vader's head, almost delirious with relief and happiness. “And for good this time- Won't make the same mistakes-” he vows fervently. “ _Won't lose you again_ -” Since abruptly dropping the mental shields he had kept up for decades, he seems unable to contain himself, almost unable to function normally without them.

 

“My _master-_ ” Vader keens, similarly carried away. He melts against Kenobi's body, eagerly drinking in the possessive emotions that radiate from it as they buffet him in luscious, glowing waves. _You are wanted, you are loved,_ they sing, a tune he never thought he'd hear again.

 

They roll together among the brushed synth-linen sheets, giggling like children, stroking their noses against each other, reveling in the sheer luxury of these sparkling nerves, these silky skins. Vader is shuddering all over, his mind a white-hot blank, like the inside of a star. The only thing more unbearable than this overwhelming, brain-melting pleasure continuing for even another moment is the prospect of it ever ending.

 

Kenobi flips him over and pins him, gazing rapturously down at him, his breathing short, his color high. But there is something amiss. For even when he is like this, flushed and elated, that pensive sadness never leaves his keen, gray eyes. “Now do you believe that this is what I truly want?” he asks. “I wish I were better able to express it-” He lowers his head slightly with a kind of tender, secretive shame. “I do realize that, as a Jedi, I may be... deficient in some ways, for these purposes. Stunted, even. Isn't that what you would have called it?”

 

“I never called you that,” Vader frowns.

 

“But you _would_ have,” Kenobi insists, “if you'd been in a position to speak your mind on the matter. In any case,” he sighs, “I suspect the damage- if indeed it _is_ damage- is quite irreversible at this point. My emotions are simply not calibrated the same way as... well, as a civilian who didn't grow up in the Temple. But what I feel for you-” he hesitates, pulse hammering at his throat, “I _believe_ it to be _love_.”

 

Vader bucks against his hold, a flash of anger shaking him. “What in the nine hells is that supposed to mean?” he snaps. “What- What sort of way is that to tell someone you love them?”

 

“I only meant-”

 

“Of course,” he scoffs, tears pricking at his eyes again, “it can't help but be an improvement over the last time- _the only other time_ \- you ever told me that you loved me.” His mouth is a hard line of misery and ire. “Need I remind you, it was as you left me to _burn_ -?!”

 

Kenobi pulls away and sits up on the mattress, his countenance crushed, his Force-presence roiling with guilt. “I- I'm sorry,” he stammers. “I only meant that- What I feel for you is- It's certainly the strongest _attachment_ I've ever known. But I've- little with which to compare it, you see,” he smiles sadly. “I cannot know whether this is how ordinary people experience love. I fear that my heart might be crippled in some way- That my meager affections will always be a poor imitation of the real thing- That I may never be able to offer you... what _she_ gave you.”

 

“What?” Vader breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “But I- I _feel_ your love for me now. It _fills_ our bond. It is so strong, so pure.”

 

“Then,” Kenobi's gaze lifts, glittering with tempered hope, “it _is_ enough for you? What I have held within me all these years- It really _is_... what people call love?”

 

“Of course it is... How could you feel it and not know?”

 

“I- I have kept it hidden. From even myself,” he says, looking down at his own lovely hands in sad wonder. “You must understand, I believed it was necessary,” he pleads. “But now I suspect that, to the extent that I was ever a good Jedi, it was not... _abstaining_ from this that made me so.” He takes a fortifying breath before continuing: “You say you want what I have to offer. You say it is enough- Yet you are still upset.”

 

“I know now for certain that you _feel_ it,” says Vader emphatically, leaning forward so that they are seated on the mattress eye-to-eye. “I am upset because you still won't _say_ it!”

 

“Oh. _Oh_ -” Kenobi blinks. Inclining his head, he seems momentarily to steel himself before launching himself at Vader, pinning his body completely and seizing his mouth in a deep, melting kiss. “I love you,” he gasps, coming up at last for air. “I love you as I have never loved any other.” He looms over Vader like a mother wampa over her cub, his heart glowing with protective devotion.

 

“Much better,” Vader pronounces, shaking with Anakin's bright laughter, wearing Anakin's impish grin.

 

“Well?”

 

“Hmm...?” He rolls his head lazily, eyelashes fluttering.

 

“Manners, Padawan.”

 

“Oh yes, of course. Forgive me, Master.” He kisses playfully at Kenobi's beard. “I love you, too.” Withdrawing his lips, he gives the Jedi a searching look. “Are you going to stay the night here?”

 

“If you'll have me,” Kenobi smiles.

 

“I want to have you always. I don't want you to leave.”

 

“But you know that I must,” he intones, suddenly grave. “I must return to the world. I have my duties, even as a ghost. And you, Anakin,” he frowns. “Promise me you won't try to escape. You must realize that no good can come of it.”

 

“Do you intend to keep me here forever?” Vader asks, studying a spot on the mattress with transparently false nonchalance.

 

“Forever is an awfully long time, my dear.”

 

“Then you _will_ eventually release me?”

 

“It rather depends on a number of things.”

 

“I think I should like to accompany you,” he grins, “as you go about performing your 'duties'. I'd promise not to interfere.”

 

Kenobi raises an eyebrow. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” He lays his hands on Vader's shoulders until the former-Sith meets his eye. “Just stay here, for the time being. I will visit you as often as I can. I will bring you whatever you need.” His breath is close, his voice tender and beguiling. His fingers move in short, tantalizing strokes before sweeping down over Vader's chest. “Your only responsibility will be to relax... and enjoy.”

 

“Put- put your belly on mine,” Vader urges, his face hot with desire.

 

“You like that, too?” Kenobi asks, reddening. “It's- awfully nice, isn't it?” He lowers himself again so that their torsos are flush together, warming each others' petal-soft skin with minute, involuntary rubbing motions.

 

Relaxing under the pleasant weight of Kenobi's body, Vader reaches for the silver thermal blanket bunched at their feet and pulls it over both of them, cocooning them together for maximum closeness. Buried beneath the covers, they ply each other with slow, worshipful caresses. Truly, they are luminous beings inside these animal bodies. As oxytocin rushes through their bloodstreams, midichlorians convert it into pure psychic energy, feeding their bond until it hums with light.

 

“Gods, look at us!” Vader exclaims breathlessly. “We- we are so _smooth_. Why didn't we ever do this before?” He nuzzles their faces together, mindlessly soaking up the sensation. “In fact, why did we ever do anything _else_?”

 

“You know very well why.”

 

He closes his eyes, resting his head in the juncture of Kenobi's neck and shoulder. Kenobi- _No_ , his heart supplies, _Obi Wan, Master_ \- drags an adoring hand through his tangled hair. As the computer begins to dim the lights above them for nighttime, their breathing begins to slow for sleep.

 

“Master?” Vader whispers after several silent minutes. “What if this isn't a vision?”

 

“I am quite sure it isn't.”

 

“But what came before- all those years-”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What if... _this_ is reality, and _all_ _that_ was a vision?”

 

Vader can feel the hinge of Kenobi's jaw move as he opens his mouth as if to say something, and then quietly closes it again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Obi Wan has emotional performance anxiety and scenes of weird, mystical cuddling continue to be my only contribution to literature.


	10. Chapter 10

The moment Darth Vader wakes to find himself still wrapped in Obi Wan Kenobi's arms, he is Darth Vader no more.

 

A false name, given to him by a false master, it no longer has any meaning for him. He sobs against the Jedi's solid chest, gratefully imbibing the steady heartbeat that thrums within it. The computer gently raises the lights to signify morning, pulling him out of his whorling, pitchblende nightmares and into the cozy, white world of his prison. Anakin Skywalker opens his eyes. His hands are shaking, his throat burning, his mind ceaselessly chanting:

  
_It's real- It's real- You are saved-_

 

He feels the buried tremor of a soundless laugh. Whiskers scrape affectionately at his brow. There are hands plunging beneath the covers to grasp him by the backs of his thighs and suddenly, in one fluid motion, he is being lifted out of bed, his own bare chest pressed against another, his legs wrapped around another's hips, his feet dangling in the air. Instinctively slinging his arms around Obi Wan's neck like a child, it takes him a moment to register that the other man is hefting his not-insubstantial frame as if it weighs nothing at all.

 

“Good morning,” Obi Wan smiles.

 

“G'morning, Master,” Anakin slurs, blinking away nocturnal tears. “Whas happen'...?”

 

“How about a nice, hot shower? I reckon your hair could use a wash,” Obi Wan muses before capturing his mouth in a slow, luxuriant kiss. He seems to shudder somewhere deep in his belly, a minute, controlled gasp escaping his lips, before pulling away. Sliding his hands under Anakin's butt for better leverage, he strides confidently through the door and down the hall towards the fresher, a kind of quiet rapture tilting his rosy mouth. His powerful arms are utterly sure in their hold, his back perfectly straight, his bemused expression betraying no hint of strain.

 

“I can walk by myself.”

 

“But I wish to carry you. And you are a good, cooperative Padawan, are you not? You shall permit your dear old master his minor eccentricities.”

 

“Y-yes,” Anakin breathes helplessly, laying his head upon Obi Wan's shoulder. A tide of warmth floods through him like a heady, golden draught, loosening his muscles until he hangs like a rag doll in the Jedi's embrace. “I am cooperative. I am obedient,” he murmurs. “I... I am _good_.”

 

Chest humming with silent mirth, Obi Wan carries him into the fresher and sets him down upon the dark stone counter. He activates the hydro unit first, letting the water grow warm as he sheds his course, beige leggings and loinclothing. His body is immaculate, Anakin thinks, like some priceless Nabooan marble, the jagged pinkish scars that span his back and shoulders, arms and legs, serving only to accentuate his warlike beauty.

 

So entranced is he by the sight of his master's sublime, heroic nakedness, that he is startled by the presence of hands atop his hips, divesting him of his own leggings. Amused by his distracted, pining look, Obi Wan lifts Anakin's bare feet in the air, bowing to visit a kiss upon each of them in turn.

 

“Are we... washing together?” Anakin croaks, his throat and jaw constricting.

 

“If you have no objection.”

 

“I'm not dreaming am I?” he asks feverishly. “Surely not- My dreams are never so sweet.” He frowns down at his hands, finding them balled into quivering fists.

 

“Relax,” says Obi Wan, guiding him down from the countertop and leading him into the black-tiled hydro chamber. It is much easier now to read the hesitation in the Jedi's posture as he reaches out to touch, what with all his well-hewn muscles on display. His belly visibly clenches as he fathoms Anakin's naked nearness. This must be, thinks the former-Sith, how he keeps his expression so neutral at critical times, by hiding his anxieties beneath voluminous robes.

 

“ _You_ relax,” Anakin retorts.

 

“I'm trying.”

 

As the steam begins to rise around them like some glimmering chthonic mist, he is made suddenly, sharply aware of the throbbing in this groin. A furtive downward glance confirms what he already knew: that Obi Wan is in the same condition.

 

“The hot water only makes it worse,” he whines, sounding foolish even to himself.

 

“I know.”

 

“I've tried, ah, _rubbing_ at it, but it just- hurts,” he stammers, coloring with shame. “ _He_ helped me to purge all thoughts of this. I cannot remember how one is supposed to- That is, how it's supposed to work.” He looks up. “Can you... show me?”

 

“Well, I-” Obi Wan swallows. “I'm certainly no expert in the matter.” He takes a halting step forward. “It's been an awfully long time,” he says carefully, “since I've had these sorts of feelings. And even before, when I _did_ have them-”

 

“You'd just... meditate them away. I know. I remember I could never seem to master that particular technique,” Anakin grins. “I could tell you were good at it, but I was much too embarrassed to ask you for help.”

 

“And now?” Obi Wan ventures. “What do you want to do about it now?” His voice is nearly inaudible over the hush of the water.

 

Anakin regards him almost shyly, initiating a tentative press of their souls. He can feel the mind of his master, see him even: The parched, wind-beaten, squinting old anchorite- Looking back at him, smiling that wry, sad, twinkling smile, slowly unfurling wrinkled hands, sunken chest shuddering with such ruined, trammeled, unfulfilled longing-

 

 _Ben. That's what I called myself._ He hears the hermit's sun-dried voice inside his head.

 

 _Ben?_ comes the feeble rasp of his own inner-self before he can stop it.

 

_Yes. Obi Wan died with you._

 

They stare at each other, _into_ each other, each one waiting for the other to make the first move, to reach out and pull them both under the hot water. The short distance between them seems momentarily insurmountable. Their tired, old souls are cowering inside these things, these _bodies._ These eerie automata, these obscene, phantasmagorical toys, these firm, silky-smooth pleasure machines. It's maddening, Anakin thinks, being inside this splendid shell. He feels utterly liberated and yet, at the same time, strangely trapped.

 

Somehow, slowly, the gap between them closes and they are joined under the water in a slippery embrace. Anakin's self-control evaporates almost immediately- Before he even knows what's happening, his body is furiously grinding itself against Obi Wan's and he is loudly whimpering into the Jedi's chest.

 

“Anakin-!” Obi Wan gasps. “Slow down!” Seizing him by the wrists, he pins his wayward apprentice against the smooth, hematite wall of the chamber, trapping those troublesome bits between their bellies.

 

“Master, _please_ -!” Anakin sobs, senselessly rutting against him.

 

“No wonder you've been hurting yourself. You can't just _pulverize_ it and expect that to- That is, you've got to apply, ah, the right sort of pressure...” With a tentative hand, Obi Wan reaches down to grasp them- his own pink stamen, Anakin's curved, purplish root- and gingerly tries working them against each other, the delicate effort creasing his brow.

 

“ _Master-_ ” Anakin moans. When that molten warmth begins to pool in his belly he recognizes it at once, though he has been a stranger to its charms for so long.

 

“Shhh...” Obi Wan breathes, shaking minutely as he increases his gentle pace, his other hand reaching up to cradle the back of Anakin's neck, bringing their foreheads together. “Be at peace, dear one,” he murmurs, his eyes falling shut. “Let me- take care of you-”

 

Their bond relaxes open like an unclenching fist, allowing the lazy, decadent sensations to wash back and forth between them. Anakin rocks and keens, the pleasure building, the tugs and strokes growing more vigorous, though never violent, the gilded moment dripping like a strand of honey into a cup of temporal tea, sweetening reality itself. They are both so hungry, so unused to this- It's over quickly, and even as they soil each others' bellies, the water washes them clean again.

 

Anakin clings to Obi Wan's neck, his legs threatening to give way beneath him as his muscles slacken with glory and light. The feeling of their slick chests rubbing against each other as the hot water flows over them is unspeakable, almost _more_ pleasurable than what came before it. He kisses at Obi Wan's buttermilk throat, bows to suck at the hollow of his clavicle, to lap at his sternum. His master's arms close around him, alive with affection and possessive desire.

 

“I love you this way-” Anakin shudders. “With arms that can crush me. You are so _strong_ , Master,” he marvels, drinking in the Jedi's mighty aura. “I think you are stronger now than you have ever been. All this time, those shields were holding you back-”

 

“That was a choice, Anakin. I suppressed my passion for you because I believed it was dangerous,” Obi Wan sighs. “I'm still not certain it isn't. But I've always known that indulging in it might make me more powerful in the Force.”

 

“More powerful... than I can possibly imagine...” Anakin muses, combing his fingers through Obi Wan's hair. His gaze lifts, a lurid blue in the close light of the chamber. “What did you mean by that?”

 

“It doesn't matter now...”

 

“ _Tell me_ ,” he hums dangerously, petting the sides of Obi Wan's head. Closing his eyes, he strokes their lips together in a not-quite-kiss. “You know what will happen, if this is real, if this isn't a vision? We will grow old. We will lose all of this again. And then we will die.” He opens his eyes again, a fraction too wide. “I don't want to lose this. I don't want to die.”

 

“Death is the way of things, Anakin,” says Obi Wan carefully. “Think of Padmé- How she went to her death. Peacefully, without fear, worried only for her children, and for you. We ought to study her example.”

 

“She was _strong_ ,” says Anakin slowly. “I am _weak_.” He nuzzles their faces together, purring like a temporarily sated beast. “I want to stay like this...” he whispers against Obi Wan's delicious throat, contemplating the red in his beard, the fibers in his muscles, the collagen in his skin. “And I want to keep you like that...”

 

He remembers what he knows of the teachings of Darth Plagueis, of the mysteries of generation: That the body is a machine which, like any other, accumulates errors in its code and begins to break down. That, like a machine, the flesh can be programmed and upgraded.

 

He feels the rise and fall of Obi Wan's chest, the intoxicating glow of life, and wants to capture it, to freeze it in carbonite, to keep it forever. Can it be done? He doesn't trust Darth Sidious' teachings anymore. Though the Darkness still flows through him, the Light has joined it, warming him without burning him, giving him balance. He knows the doctrines of the Sith to be as faulty as those of the Jedi. He can't rely on either of them. He is in uncharted territory- But he is not without guidance. His master, his one _true_ master, knows the secret-

 

“Yes...” he pronounces, bowing his head in awed submission. “I see it now. You are immortal. Truly, you are the greatest master I could ever serve.”

 

“No, Anakin,” Obi Wan admonishes him, caressing his shoulders with worry. “The Way of the Whills is an ancient spiritual path. It is nothing like the vulgar Sith quest for immortality.”

 

“ _Make me like you-_ ”

 

“That isn't how it works. I cannot _make_ you capable of communing with the Whills. It is a matter of study and discipline.”

 

“ _Then teach me!_ ” Anakin cries.

 

“First,” says Obi Wan, as he lovingly rakes the wet curls away from Anakin's brow, “you must let go of this fear. You must accept that you will die. Only then,” he smiles, kissing the center of his forehead, “can you become a disciple of the most ancient Order of the Force.” He gazes into Anakin's eyes, pale lashes sparkling with beaded moisture. “There _are_ ways we could be together, even after death, as beings of pure spirit.”

 

“Would we be able to touch each other?” Anakin asks- nearly _begs_.

 

“It wouldn't be like this,” says Obi Wan, squeezing him tightly. “It wouldn't be like having flesh. But it could be just as good. Perhaps, in some ways... even _better_.”

 

“Teach me,” Anakin whispers hotly, returning the embrace. “I am yours for eternity. I will do anything you ask.”

 

“ _Eternity_ , Padawan?” Obi Wan frowns playfully. “Let me at least get the knots out of your hair. Then we can start worrying about eternity.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the poetic irony of Anakin betraying Obi Wan in exchange for the power to cheat death, when, from a certain point of view, Obi Wan was actually the one who could have taught him that power. 
> 
> Of course, whenever George writes something poetic and subtle, we have to ask ourselves whether it was intentional or just a coincidence.


	11. Chapter 11

If this is a test, he is failing it.

  


Obi Wan gazes down into the glossy, white egg of Luke and Leia's shared cradle, contemplating what a Jedi dares not name.

  


There is no such thing as corruption in moderation. There is no safe dosage, not for him anyway. Like ink in water, the smallest drop blackens the whole. He was a fool to think he could give his heart a little taste of what it wanted. Already, it is demanding more. Weakness begets weakness, attachment begets attachment. Over the course of several weeks, his plans for secret and infrequent meetings with the captive Sith- just enough to dull the edge of his loneliness, just enough to let him carry on- have given way to fantasies of sharing a life together. Of raising a _family_ together. Of meals together, bedtime stories, fields of flowers, shadow games. Of tousling little Luke's dawn-colored hair, of putting a smile in little Leia's flashing, sphalerite eyes. His thoughts have never felt so out of control. Day and night, his imagination tortures him with such senseless, beautiful visions.

  


He is determined to overcome this failure, to regain his focus. He meditates with Master Ti. He oversees the orphaned padawans' saber practice. Yet balance continues to elude him. He wishes for all the galaxy he could somehow un-know the fatal sweetness of the Dark One's kiss. Inevitably, he loses his resolve, takes the turbolift down, and spends the night with Anakin wrapped in his arms, murmuring promises of eternal union. There, in the stillness of the white room, there is only the joy of being with his love, while back on the surface, the iron lump of guilt in his chest grows heavier every day. And so it goes: A vicious cycle of binging and purging. He never realized before now how much his habitual Jedi calm resembled the shaky, light-headed clarity of starvation.

  


As Luke grasps his finger in a tiny fist, gazing up him with watchful, stone-gray eyes, he feels the strangest urge to ask the infant for guidance. An absurd notion, he admonishes himself. After all: the child that was his lodestar, his candle in the darkness, his only hope for twenty years, is entirely unaware of having played this part. Nevertheless, as the infant's wordless mind reaches out to him, instinctively probing him through the Force, his soul heaves with longing.

  


_It's different this time_ , his traitorous thoughts are humming. _You can forget the pain, the grief, the loneliness of watching him grow up from afar. He could be yours this time, your child. They both could be..._

  


But Padmé-!

  


_Padmé would want you to keep them. To care for them. She would not begrudge you this._

  


But why-

  


_It only feels like stealing from her because your heart is so bent in on itself! You have learned to blame yourself for everything. Normal people don't do this to themselves. Normal people take what they want out of life._

  


But the Jedi-

  


_You_ are _the Jedi now. You can make the rules._

  


Obi Wan breathes in slowly, watching his own rosy hands curl and uncurl in the soft light of the temple nursery, wiggling like a pair of pale starfish. Bleary, foreign shapes before his salty, burning eyes. He folds his arms inside his sleeves, trying to keep himself steady. His act is wearing thin, and he knows it. Master Ti offered to lead the padawans in their katas this morning with a worried hand on his shoulder and a question in her eyes.

  


But what can he tell her? That he comes from the future? That this isn't his world?

  


_That your body only feels real when Anakin is touching it-_

  


With a sigh of frustration, he turns to leave Luke and Leia in the care of the healers. Before disappearing, however, he can't help but send them one last thought through the Force: a mute promise, like a warm ball of white sunshine. Whatever his failures, he will never cease to be their guardian. Until this world, this future is safe for them, he will never rest.

  


* * *

 

It's late afternoon and the temple is quiet. It's always quiet now, with so few of them left. The building itself seems to mock them, a vast, empty monument to their hubris. Padawans wander the echoing hallways largely unsupervised, huddling together in secret alcoves, visiting each others' quarters at will. Obi Wan pretends not to notice the way they stroke each others' faces now, the way they weep into each others' tunics, bitterly mourning their dead masters, when they think no one else can see. He cannot bring himself to scold them for succumbing to the same need for comfort which he himself has been unable to resist.

  


He sits beneath a shady tree in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, its blue foliage throwing dappled lights against his closed eyelids like the prelude to a dream. Rivers of boiling water rush past him in black marble flumes, surrounding him with a veil of soothing, perfumed vapor as he struggles to center himself in the Force.

  


“A great destiny do I foresee, for the children of Senator Amidala and Young Skywalker.” Master Yoda stands before him, squinting into the violet fog, his long ears subtly twitching like those of a vigilant cat. “Intend to train them as Jedi, do you?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder.

  


Obi Wan opens his eyes. “ _You_ must train them, Master,” he urges. “It is far too important a task to be left to me.” His posture sinks fractionally as he lowers his voice in shame. “I'm afraid I am much too... compromised.”

  


“To your attachment to Skywalker, you refer?”

  


“Yes, Master.”

  


“Hrmm. Know of your activities with him, I do.”

  


“Master-?” Obi Wan blushes, his gaze plummeting into his lap like a stone.

  


“I can neither condone nor condemn them. For compromised too am _I_. Failed, I did, to defeat Darth Sidious. Overconfident, I had become in my abilities. And too quick,” Yoda pauses, rocking forward on his cane, “to resort to violence.” He spins around, regarding Obi Wan sharply. “If obeyed _my_ orders and killed Darth Vader you had, still at large would Darth Sidious be. Young Skywalker's destiny it was to destroy the Sith, not mine. And your compassion for him it was, which enabled him to fulfill it.” He heaves his tiny shoulders with a rumbling sigh. “And which is the greater danger to Amidala's children, I wonder? That from you selfless love they learn, or from me foolish pride?”

  


Obi Wan opens his mouth to object, but quickly closes it again. It hadn't occurred to him that the Yoda of this timeline might be just as weary and jaded as the one who exiled himself to Dagobah. The one who told him gruffly, in the sterile hallway of the base at Polis Massa, that the Jedi Council had failed the Order and failed the Republic. The one who only grumbled and shook his head when Obi Wan asked if the Skywalker twins were to be trained.

  


“But surely Master,” he frowns, “you must guide me. We must rebuild the Order. The galaxy needs us!”

  


“Does it? Hmm?” Scrunching his face in bitter amusement, Yoda strikes the ground twice with his cane. “Not so clear, anymore. Allow themselves to fade away, perhaps the Jedi should. But it is not for me to decide. Too high a price has the galaxy paid for my mistakes. And too old have I become, to control the fate of the next generation. You, Obi Wan, shall inherit this ancient Order, and make of it what you will.” He turns his back, the violet steam obscuring him as he begins to walk away. “I, myself,” he hums, “look forward to retirement and rest.”

  


“Master Yoda, wait!” Obi Wan calls, dropping all pretense of meditation and leaping to his feet. “There is something I must tell you: I am not exactly who you think I am.”

  


The Grand Master stops without turning to face him, a hearty laugh shaking his diminutive frame. “Presume too much you do, Obi Wan. Easily fooled, I am not!”

  


“Then you already know! You know that Anakin and I are-”

  


“Changed, yes. Changed us all, this war has,” he says cryptically, vanishing into the mist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Obi Wan Kenobi receives some counseling for his emotional anorexia. 
> 
> I'm not even sorry.


	12. Chapter 12

“Run a status check. I want to see if there are any bugs before I close you back up.”

 

The astromech blinks a few times, emitting a low whir. “ _All systems are functioning at optimal capacity_ ,” he chirps. Then, after some hesitation: “ _Thank you_.”

 

“Excellent,” Anakin smiles. He replaces the chrome maintenance panel and solders it shut before rubbing the top of Artoo's dome with a polishing cloth. The software patch he installed was long overdue, and an excellent excuse to talk Artoo into a full tune-up. The restless, hard-working little droid is almost as reluctant to submit to routine repairs, he thinks fondly, as Obi Wan is to visit the healers.

 

“Well, old friend. Now it's my turn,” he sighs. He wipes his fingers on what he now regards as his work clothes: a snug, sleeveless tunic and leggings, both black, to hide grease stains. Hunching over on his workbench, he drives a long, silver implement into the juncture of his prosthetic arm, turning it three times in order to disengage the locking mechanism. He pulls the arm from its mount, wincing as the neural connection is broken. He takes a deep breath, waiting for the initial phantom pains to pass, and then probes the empty socket with a sterile swab. It is important to keep the neural interface free of any blood or puss that might seep in from the surrounding tissue. He rolls his shoulders, trying to dispel the unpleasant tingling in his stump.

 

He remembers the anguish he felt when he lost this arm to Count Dooku. It was difficult, at first, for him to acclimate to the prosthetic, more difficult, perhaps than it should have been for a Jedi padawan nearing knighthood. He remembers the way Padmé would kiss it, would even sometimes take a metallic fingertip into her mouth as they lay in bed together. She would stroke his naked chest, assuring him that his body was not ruined, that he was still strong and beautiful. He could never seem to explain to her what it had meant to him, what it meant for a slave to lose an arm. What it did to their value.

 

Padmé was always well-meaning but, he realizes now, naïve in her politics, ignorant of the realities of life in the Outer Rim. He wonders, cruelly, if she would ever have been strong enough to survive all those years in the desert as Obi Wan did, but immediately feels a stab of guilt for thinking ill of her. The poor girl is dead, after all, by his hand.

 

The hand in question is propped between his thighs as he tightens tiny bolts and probes points of articulation. His fire-ravaged, half-droid body sometimes required hours of intensive maintenance. This? He smirks to himself. This is _nothing._

 

He slides the arm back into its freshly cleaned socket, waiting for the neural connection to be reestablished before locking it back into place with three turns of the long, silver hook. Curling his mechanical fingers, he taps them against each other, taking note of their improved sensitivity. He feels nothing of the revulsion and misery the prosthetic once inspired in him. He _loves_ his body now. Every centimeter of it. In fact, he spends an embarrassing amount of time staring at it. Or mindlessly running his hands all over it.

 

“Alright, Artoo,” he claps. “Now that we are both in top form, how do you want to spend the rest of the day?”

 

“ _It is not my responsibility to entertain you_ ,” the astromech beeps.

 

“I am fully capable of occupying myself,” says Anakin, feigning insult. “There are many things on which I must meditate, you know. But I thought _you_ might be bored.”

 

“ _Ridiculous_. _Droids do not get bored_.”

 

“Never?” he raises an eyebrow.

 

“ _Not when we have a mission to fulfill. Master Kenobi has tasked me with observing you and reporting on your behavior. As long as I am serving my purpose, I cannot be bored_.”

 

“How wonderfully simple your existence must be,” he frowns into his lap. “I do envy your kind, at times.” He looks up, smiling. “But then, I could not bear to live without the Force.”

 

Artoo warbles angrily at this. “ _I still think it was extremely foolish of Master Kenobi to remove your... restraining bolt(?) The fact that you have exchanged many touches with him does not make you any less unpredictable and dangerous. His judgement is compromised by his desire to continue exchanging touches with you. I have told him this numerous times, but he refuses to listen to me_.” His dome spins all the way around and back, as if he is wrestling with something. “ _However, I am glad to see that you are feeling so much better. You have not been yourself ever since you became... someone else(?) I was told you had assumed a new identity, although I am not sure I understand what this means. I did not realize it was possible for humans to become other humans_.”

 

“I didn't know you were so worried about me,” Anakin grins. He puts his tools down for a moment, turning grave. “I _was_ someone else, in a way,” he says slowly. “Although, not in the way you're imagining. Not literally.”

 

“ _I see. The other human you became was a metaphor. I believe I understand_ ,” Artoo hums. “ _But now_ _you are yourself again, correct?_ ”

 

“No,” says Anakin. He flexes his mismatched hands, thinking. “I am myself... for the first time in my life.”

 

“ _Then I am still confused. Who were you before, if not yourself?_ ” A poignant pause. “ _I thought I knew you well_.”

 

“It is perhaps impossible for a droid to understand the vagaries of human identity. Our souls are so very different from yours,” Anakin muses, bunching his shoulder blades together and stretching his arms. “But don't worry– In many ways, I am just as you knew me.” With a flick of his wrist, he levitates Artoo a few meters into the air. “I remain unpredictable and dangerous,” he laughs.

 

The astromech squeals indignantly, “ _This is all going in my report!_ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He is sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, back straight, hands open atop his thighs. Freshly showered and pleasantly sore, he is in the ideal mood for meditation. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. Suddenly, his breath catches and his toes curl in excitement as he receives a portent from the Force:

 

Obi Wan will visit him tonight.

 

In the course only a few short months, the Jedi Master has become Anakin's entire universe. His life essentially consists of being with Obi Wan, and waiting for the next time he can be with Obi Wan. He has ceased to think of escape. Ever since the Force-inhibiting collar was removed from around his neck, there has been an implicit understanding between them that, if he really wanted to, he could probably find a way out of this prison. And yet, as much as he longs to fly through space and run through fields again, he knows he will never be able to leave this place until Obi Wan leads him out by the hand. It is not the five kilometers of duracrete, but the thought of breaking his master's heart all over again, of seeing the disappointment in his eyes, that keeps Anakin helplessly confined.

 

To stave off boredom and madness, he has developed a routine. He gets up early every morning, eats a large breakfast, and spends the first two hours of the day exercising. He has always enjoyed physical exertion, and training this strange body has gone a long way towards helping him feel at home in it again. (The thought of Obi Wan's admiring gaze upon his rounded biceps and long, tapering torso doesn't exactly hurt either.) He runs up and down the hallways, performs situps and push ups, and stands in the kitchen curling glass jugs of juice. By the end of the third week, he had installed a metal bar in one of the empty doorways so that he could practice lifting his own body weight. He always finishes by running through his lightsaber forms, both Jedi and Sith, with a dark wood bokken.

 

When the chrono shows eighth hour, he cools down, stretches, and heads to one of the large, central rooms which he now thinks of as his garage. Donning his work clothes, he devotes most of the day to his various mechanical projects. At first, negotiating with Obi Wan's courier droid through the wall-mounted computer terminal bore little fruit, but with Artoo's reluctant assistance he has managed to procure all manner of tools and supplies. He has given himself the challenge of designing and building a small starfighter from scratch by stripping other machines for their parts.

 

If he doesn't feel like working in the garage, he can always amuse himself by watching holos, listening to music, and antagonizing Artoo. The little astromech grumbles and hurls sarcastic comments, but his initial suspicion and contempt have largely evaporated. It's just not in his loyal nature to hold a grudge against such an old friend.

 

Some days, Anakin tries teaching himself new skills, like drawing and baking, with mixed success. He browses holo-catalogues and orders the kinds of beautiful clothes he wants Obi Wan to see him in. He wonders if anyone is keeping track of all the credits he's spending, but figures it can't be making much of a dent in the Jedi Order's enormous budget.

 

When he's tired himself out for the day, he takes a long, hot shower, washing away the engine grease and sweat, and starts preparing himself for Obi Wan's visit. The Jedi only occasionally comes down, but since Anakin never knows which night will be an Obi Wan night, he must always be ready. He stands naked in front of the floor-length mirror in the fresher, rubbing his skin with sweet oil and admiring his own reflection. He dresses in one of his several new outfits, posing and practicing what he hopes are charming expressions. Finally, he fixes his hair, which is getting to be quite long, into some elaborate style of the sort Padmé always favored. These are difficult to achieve without the help of handmaidens, but after much practice and several holonet tutorials, he has become quite good at some of them.

 

Today, he is dressed in a scarlet shimmersilk kimono with matching leggings and pointed, beet-red slippers. His hair is secured at the crown of his head with a golden ring and split into two braided loops which hang behind his ears. Knowing that Obi Wan appreciates simplicity, he never dresses up _too_ much. His attire is striking, and yet comfortable enough for relaxing and meditating in. Or trying to, anyway. It's impossible to center himself in the Force while his heart is fluttering with such wild anticipation. He usually doesn't know whether Obi Wan is coming on a given day, but this time he feels certain.

 

At the start of his imprisonment, if the Jedi came at all, it was usually only _after_ Anakin had made himself supper, cleaned his teeth, removed all his finery, and retired to bed. Lying there, naked beneath his thermal blanket in the twilight before sleep, he would feel a wordless brush against his mind requesting permission to join him. He would send his effusive agreement, his body frozen with suspense and his heart exploding with joy. The few moments it took Obi Wan to get undressed always felt like an eternity. At last, he would slip beneath the covers, pulling Anakin's back against his chest, their naked bodies straining urgently against each other to be as close as possible. He would mouth beautiful nonsense into Anakin's hair until they both fell asleep, as if weaving a spell to keep both of their nightmares at bay. He would be gone in the morning before Anakin woke, as if trying to trick them both into believing he had never been there at all.

 

It had been painful for Anakin to realize that the Jedi Master, whom he had always considered so cunning and invincible, even when they were enemies, was so utterly consumed with trauma and guilt. Obi Wan was possessive, but never aggressive, always gentle and respectful of Anakin's wishes– yet for months he continued to torture himself with the notion that his feelings were somehow violent and wrong.

 

But this is changing, Anakin reflects, trying in vain to still his hammering heart. The last few weeks have been the happiest of his life. Of both their lives. Obi Wan has begun to visit more frequently. Sometimes, he arrives in the early evening, in time to see Anakin all dressed up for him, and they have supper together. Sometimes, they talk and laugh for hours, getting to know each other in ways that make Anakin think they were practically strangers before. Their conversations are so much deeper and more interesting now that they are both old men, both filled with insight, experience, and regret.

 

They talk of history, politics, science, and war. They talk of the Force, of the Dark Side and the Light– without obfuscation, without dogma, without fear– and it is as if they are discussing it for the very first time. They speculate, argue, and compare their experiences. They meditate, experiment, and search for the Truth.

 

Obi Wan has promised to train him in the Way of the Whills, to show him the path to immortality, so that they can spend eternity together. Moreover, Obi Wan has begun to love him, not for the callow boy he once was, but for the man he has become. He has begun to love the mind of Darth Vader.

 

After supper, they fall into bed undressing each other, their mouths working eagerly, but never hastily, and hold each other tightly, chest to chest beneath the soft, synth-linen sheets. They each press a thigh into each other's groins, slowly grinding against each other until they both reach orgasm. Obi Wan wipes them down with a disposable wet-cloth, and they settle in for sleep.

 

In his youth, Anakin would have been anxious for them to have “real” sex. Only now does he understand that this kind of sex is as real as any other. Only now has he begun to truly know himself, to develop a fully-formed idea of what he wants.

 

Though he didn't want to pressure her, he remembers feeling quietly impatient with Padmé when she didn't want to copulate at first. Though he enjoyed kissing and cuddling more than anything else, he worried that she wouldn't symbolically belong to him until they had gone “all the way.” Over the course of their marriage, he came to realize that she possessed a far greater appetite for copulation than he did. Though he was happy to oblige her, he began to wonder if he wasn't strange for preferring simple caresses to what a husband was supposed to want from his wife. The occasion of Luke and Leia's conception was, like most others, initiated by her.

 

His physical relationship with Padmé was never unsatisfying. She provided him with plenty of the pets and kisses he craved. But what he now shares with Obi Wan is beyond anything else he has ever experienced.

 

They have charted new domains of intimacy. They have lain for hours on end entwining their bodies, memorizing each others' structures, loving every individual cell. They have wandered through the gardens of each others' souls, planting seeds and pruning branches.

 

The last time Obi Wan visited, he murmured against Anakin's neck: “No matter how long I spend up there, I can never shake the feeling that I'm dreaming. This is my real life, down here, with you. If not for my responsibilities, I'd never leave these rooms.”

 

“If not for your responsibilities,” Anakin had said, “you could bring me with you to the surface.”

 

Back in the present, Anakin opens his eyes. The chrono is showing the twentieth hour. For a moment, he worries the portent was wrong, perhaps conjured up by wishful thinking. But then, he hears the lift doors chime, feels that beloved presence enter the black box, and leaps to his feet with the knowledge that his prayers have been answered.

 

Obi Wan enters the bedroom, beaming like a thousand suns, and sweeps Anakin off his feet, spinning him around like a fairytale prince. They kiss, the Force arcing through them as the black box magnifies their bond, rendering them the only living creatures in their own private universe. Anakin Skywalker lets go of his fear.

 

This is the first moment of eternity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I'm back in business babes. 
> 
> In other news, now that I've got some free time, I've started drawing again.
> 
> Hey, if all y'all leave me nice, meaty comments, maybe I'll add illustrations to this story. Would anyone actually be interested in that, or is drawing fanart of your own fanfic considered too masturbatory?


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